If It Moves, Kick It
by yallaintright
Summary: That one World Cup AU in which Enjolras is very good at kicking a ball around and Grantaire is very good at making footballers punch him in the face. Football (soccer) AU, set during the 2018 World Cup.
1. Chapter 1

Grantaire is quite certain that Enjolras wants to punch him. A normal person would probably worry, but this isn't particularly unusual for Grantaire. Making football players want to punch him is half of what he does. The other half is making them cry. Two years ago, he'd gotten to interview the Spanish goalkeeper the media adoringly referred to as the "the next Iker Casillas". Halfway through the interview, the kid had broken down, called his agent and begged to be given a job in Kazakhstan so he'd never have to talk to Grantaire again. The football world never heard from him again.

Now, that had been a fun day.

Which isn't to say interviewing Enjolras isn't fun. It is. Just not in the same way. For starters, he looks every inch the French David Beckham, as the press has taken to calling him. Grantaire wants to congratulate him on winning the genetic lottery. He's got the whole package: hair and eyes and shoulders and an ass clad in pants that are too tight for a footballer as fit as Enjolras to wear with any decency. Not that Grantaire's noticed. Much.

Grantaire wonders if he's this annoying in bed. Probably. Also, he resents Enjolras looking at him as if he's a complete douchebag when he's actually on his best behavior. Not that he much cares about Enjolras' delicate sensibilities, but Enjolras is France's golden boy and Grantaire behaving in his usual way will most likely result in an overwhelming influx of hate letters to the newspaper. Again, not that he much cares, but every time he gets hate mail Cosette is the one who has to go through it and she already threatens to castrate him twice a week. Grantaire would fill out a very angry intern evaluation form, but he's quite certain Cosette would just replace it with one saying she's an angel sent from heaven who deserves free chocolate and foot massages as well as a raise, so the whole thing would probably be a waste of time.

The interview had even started off well enough, with hellos and shaken hands, and polite, politically correct, PR-approved answers. They'd talked about the start of Enjolras' career, how he managed to be in top shape for the World Cup despite a very tiring season, how the team was adapting to the weather and how they were all getting along with each other. Sure, Grantaire had thrown in a drama-baiting question over the accusations that with FIFA having a French president, the national team would be given an unfair advantage but Enjolras had smiled politely and said that he was sure that Monsieur Thénardier would have no problem being a fair and unbiased president. Grantaire even managed not to roll his eyes at that.

But then Grantaire had asked what were Enjolras' expectations for the World Cup and… well. When Enjolras firmly said he wanted to lift the cup Grantaire had practically fallen out of his chair laughing. It probably wasn't a very professional thing to do, but really, there is no way France is going to win. Which he is currently trying to explain to Enjolras, who is pacing the room, probably to put some space between himself and Grantaire. "Look, it's not that I think you all suck - wait, no, it's _exactly_ that I think you all suck."

"France has a long history of -"

"- of sucking. France has a long history of sucking." Grantaire completes for him, offering a lazy smirk.

Grantaire reckons Enjolras is ready to strangle him. He might as well have insulted his mother. "I know you're the one who's supposed to be asking the questions, but I have to ask – are you always this much of an asshole?"

He looks outraged. Grantaire finds it hilarious. "Yes. It's a gift."

"How can you even say that about France's history? Just barely more than a decade ago - "

"Just barely more than a decade ago, France somehow made it to the World Cup final." He rolls his eyes. "Do you want to take a look at what's happened since? In Euro 2008, France managed to not make it out of the group stage, by having a grand total of one point. Apparently, this was such an impressive achievement, that they felt the need to repeat it in 2010. In Euro 2012, they finally managed to make it out of the group stage but then promptly got spanked in the quarter-final by - "

This annoys Enjolras even more, "- by the team that would go on to _win it_."

"What, like that's supposed to make the French feel better? But let us go on, shall we? In 2014, you didn't even bother qualifying - "

"We were only second in the group, we played Portugal in the playoffs - "

"Who then won the Cup, sure. Which wouldn't be so bad, if this didn't actually bring us to two years ago, when half the team somehow found a new and spectacular way to crash and burn out of a tournament. Which was by getting into a fist fight. With the other half of the team._ During a match_."

Enjolras is practically shouting, "That was different! That was two years ago!"

"What's supposed to make it so different this time?"

"I'm here now", is the only reply Grantaire gets. It is, technically speaking, true. He was just a kid in 2014, barely twenty years-old, and played less than twenty minutes the entire tournament. In 2016 he was already one of France's brightest stars, but a nasty ankle injury in the last league match had put him out of the tournament.

"Well", Grantaire says slowly, running a hand through his messy curls, "sorry if I don't think your mere presence is earth-shattering enough to - "

"That's not what I mean and you know it. All the team needs is a _leader_. They need someone who can keep them together, someone who can lead by example, someone who can lead the way and inspire them to better themselves every single match for the people of France. I can be that person."

Grantaire can only snort. "That still doesn't change anything. But let's say for a minute that it does. Let us even say that everyone has gotten their anger management classes in this time. It still doesn't change the fact that for a team that uses such defensive tactics you really can't defend, that your striker has never met a goal post he didn't like - "

"Marius has just been extremely unlucky lately. His form is bound to go up, the rest of the team has absolute faith on him."

Grantaire ignores the interruption, "- it also doesn't change that your goalkeeper spends more time trying to check the state of his hair in the giant screens than paying attention to the game and it sure as hell doesn't change the fact that the entire team hates the coach."

Enjolras looks away and it's clear that Grantaire's hit a nerve. "We do not hate Javert - "

"Yes, you do." Ah, the sweet taste of victory. Grantaire leans back on his chair, "You are very attractive when you're counting all the ways you can kill someone with a water bottle, has anyone ever told you that?" Which, wow, was really not what Grantaire had intended to say. Really. He fights the urge to knock his head against the table, reminding himself that he is a Very Serious Journalist. He is. He promises he is. He once made a Ballon D'Or winner cry while his mother tried to exorcise him. Again, another fun day. Not the point now, though. He sighs sadly for Enjolras' benefit and adds, "Do you ever get very depressed because all the hot ones are always so dumb?"

Enjolras ignores both the compliment and the insult. He looks Grantaire straight in the eye. "You're still wrong.

Grantaire can only snort. "You know, you're just annoying enough to be an iPhone app. It could be called Delusional Asshole. The English would love you and want to adopt you. They'd feed you all their weird food and let you watch as much Doctor Who as you wanted. You'd never have to work another day again. Hell, you could probably bat your eyelashes at the Queen and she'd adopt you herself. "

Enjolras storms closer to Grantaire. "You're wrong," he repeats.

Grantaire scoffs. "So you've said. You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. Please excuse me for not rushing to buy a "France - World Cup 2018 Winners" scarf."

"We _are_ going to win the competition. I am going to lead the team, they will rise to the challenge and we are going to win every single game until we reach the final, and then we are going to win that too. And you're going to regret everything you've ever written about us and said to me today."

"Enjolras", he says patiently, "you really have no chance at all. It'd be better if all of you just packed up your bags and went home. France does not need more humiliation."

"Oh my god, do you even listen to yourself? Who died and made you Mourinho?" Enjolras snaps at him.

"Going by the way you talk, I'd expect it's probably the same person who died and made you Maradona."

By the way Enjolras' eyes narrow at this, Grantaire guesses this is the angriest he's ever been at anyone. He is very close to Grantaire now.

The thing about Enjolras is that he has been viciously, furiously, savagely, brutally tackled during football matches. He has always turned the other cheek and walked away. He knows the price for not keeping a tight leash on his temper. He has a captain's armband to honor. He has a reputation to maintain. He has an example to set. He has teammates to inspire. He has the expectations of an entire country resting on his muscled shoulders.

All of which amount to nothing, really, when his fist connects with Grantaire's face.


	2. Chapter 2

There are two things everyone should know about Grantaire. The first is that, when it comes right down to it, he is extremely good at his job. He can enumerate all of a team's weaknesses and strengths without a second thought, can understand the intricacies of the game in ways most people never will, can analyze tactics and strategies the same way scientists analyze equations and formulas. He just gets football and it's the reason he'll probably always have a job, no matter how much of a raging asshole he might be at times. He would probably make a great coach, if he liked building things more than he likes tearing them apart. The fact that Grantaire really fucking likes tearing things apart is, precisely, the second thing everyone should know about him. Because when you tend to tear apart things people really love on a weekly basis, you also tend to upset them. And when you tend to upset people, particularly football fans who still remember your articles when they're drunk, those people have a tendency to punch you if you're not careful.

Grantaire has never been careful.

He reckons his punch counter is somewhere around twenty five by now - at least since he's started keeping track - but the World Cup hasn't even started yet and he's sure the number is bound to go up.

At the moment, this is something he is extremely grateful for. For starters, the majority of those punches barely more than scratched him - most people really cannot punch, particularly when they are drunk. And even for those few people who can actually throw a punch, face punches are always a hit and miss and you're just as likely to end up hurting the person you are hitting as you are of hurting yourself.

And while Enjolras most definitely can throw a punch, he has two things working against him. One - he's standing up and Grantaire's sitting down, which messes up his angle, and two - he just doesn't have as much practice at punching people as Grantaire has at getting punched.

It's that same practice that allows him to realize what's going to happen a split second before it happens. It's a reflex by now - and oh how Grantaire is glad he never drinks on the job - and before he even knows what's happening muscle memory is kicking in and he's ducking his head and Enjolras' fist is hitting his forehead rather than his jaw. He's quite sure that would've broken bone if it'd hit the target.

Taking a punch is an art, Grantaire thinks, and he's mastered it by now.

His head still really fucking hurts.

"You know," he starts, "I don't even know what's sadder. That you punch like a girl or that I just got punched by France's Next Top David Beckham." Because he is most definitely not going to give Enjolras the satisfaction of knowing how much his head hurts.

"You deserved that," Enjolras says through clenched teeth. "And that's sexist."

Grantaire is not even going to acknowledge that. He glares vaguely in Enjolras' general directions - he's seeing two of him - and says,"Sit down, Pepe, looking up at you is making my neck hurt."

Enjolras doesn't even pretend to be sorry. Grantaire sort of wants to punch him back. However, while Enjolras does not look pleased at the comparison, for once he does what he's told, sitting in the chair across from Grantaire. "I - will you _please_ not call me that?

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, is this supposed to be your pathetic attempt at an apology? Because, wow - that was awful. For the record, you're supposed to say something along the lines of 'I'm sorry Grantaire, I am an awful human being, please keep me as your personal slave as long as you need to in order to fully forgive me'. I do so want a personal slave." His brain does not supply the words 'sex slave'. At all. He is better than that. He is. "Can you cook? Can you clean? Can you dance? Ooooh, do you style your own hair? Because if you do your own curls, really - congratulations. What's your secret? I never could get mine to look like that. Although, you're probably one of those people who just takes a shot of L'Oreal, alongside their extremely healthy, well-balanced breakfast." He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts. If only his head would stop ringing… "Although, considering that huge stick up your ass, maybe you should try Herbal Essences. It might do wonders for that temper of yours. France really can't afford to have her captain getting red carded every single match, can she?"

"You really are a complete asshole."

"One of my many charms, or so I'm often told." Grantaire should probably shut up but, look, he wasn't hugged enough as a child, he doesn't know the difference between good and bad attention and getting Enjolras all riled up is, in general, punching aside, fun. He vaguely considers that if a Greek God was ever to breed with an angry Cocker Spaniel, Enjolras would probably be the result. It really shouldn't be humanly possible for someone to be so hot when pissed off, but clearly someone neglected to inform Enjolras of that.

"You deserved that," he repeats, "you were rude and insulting and talking about things you don't understand." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "But I still shouldn't have done it."

"Because members of the press shouldn't get punched regardless of how mean they are to you or because now I hold your fate on my hands?" And he does_not_ think there are other things of the blond he'd rather have in his hands. Punching people shouldn't be rewarded with orgasms. Although, he supposes that angry sex - hopefully without anyone getting punched - has its potential.

Enjolras pointedly does not answer him and that's all the answer he needs.

The silence between them stretches uncomfortably. And now that the self-righteous anger has abated somehow, Grantaire thinks he can see just an edge of panic in the way Enjolras clenches his jaw. Grantaire gets the feeling that Enjolras isn't used to it. He doesn't much like it, either.

"You don't need me to tell you that that was stupid. Of all the stupid things you could've done - stealing the world's chocolate supply, saying that football is _just a game_ or - you know, I don't even know. In the never-ending list of stupid things you could've done this one really takes the cake. Hell, it probably takes every cake, cookie, cupcake, pie and pudding in existence. I feel feel like new desserts should be invented just to fully describe how stupid this was. And also because I like desserts. But mostly because this was really fucking stupid."

"Look, I'm sorry, but - "

"Oh for the love of - fine, keep your panties on. Or take them off, that's probably the fastest way to get me to forgive you. I'm fine, we're fine, everything's fine. You deserve a first row seat to the slaughter of all of France's hopes and dreams and far be it from me to be the one to keep you from that."

A blond eyebrow goes up, "You don't care that I punched you?"

Enjolras most definitely does not need to know Grantaire's track record with getting punched in the face. Although… "Getting punched is a lovely way to meet new people. In fact, that's how I met my last girlfriend. Delightful woman. Great right hook. Unlike you, may I add. You know, it really is pathetic how bad of a puncher you are." He looks straight at Enjolras. There is only one of him now. That's a good sign.

Enjolras zones in on the earlier insult. "I'm not a bad puncher." A pause. "And we're not going to get slaughtered."

Grantaire picks his battles, ignoring the last part. "You are, actually. Please don't punch people. Not because people shouldn't randomly be punched, but because you're just embarrassing yourself."

"Be serious, Grantaire."

"France's sexiest footballer just punched me in the face, I reserve the right to be wild. I also reserve the right to never wash my face again. Just so you know."

Enjolras rolls his eyes but Grantaire doesn't miss the way the corners of his mouth go up. It appears that he is back in his (annoying, delusional, self-righteous, _really fucking hot_) element. It suits him.

"What's your problem with Maradona, anyway? Most players would sell their mothers for even a chance to be mentioned in the same breath as him."

Enjolras bites his lip. If Grantaire is going to cover France's campaign in the World Cup he really should stop getting distracted by it. "Off the record?"

"You've already punched me and we've established that I'm not going to do anything about it. I think it's safe to say we're off the record." Already he has an idea of what's coming, and in much the same way you don't walk in a church and bitch about the Pope, you don't bitch about Maradona in a football interview to someone who may actually print it.

"Maradona was a waste of talent." He notices Grantaire about to open his mouth and waves his hands to get him to shut up. "No, listen -"

Grantaire ignores him. "I'm sorry, for a moment there you sounded as if you were the one who got punched. Enjolras, are you certifiably insane? You want to say he threw away the end of his career, sure, but how can you say he was a waste of talent when the man single-handedly won Argentina a World Cup and - "

"I know that. Don't you think I know that? But he could have done so much_more_. But you don't know what it's like, you don't understand."

"Then maybe you should explain it, rather than trying to glare me into submission?

Enjolras leans closer to Grantaire, running a hand through his hair. It makes him look more human being and less god, more approachable. "Youth systems are brutal. I was first scouted when I was 12 years old. I lived in a Youth Academy since I was 13. Me, everyone there - we went home on weekends and on holidays and that was it."

Grantaire can't help but roll his eyes. "I am so sorry that you had a chance most kids can only dream of having. Get over yourself. Plenty of kids go to boarding schools and they don't have the benefit of having the world at their feet when they get out."

He expects anger, but Enjolras only looks tired. "That's precisely the point, though. Every year around fifty new kids, fifty new children make into the Academy. And every year, in a very good year, four players from the youth ranks make it into the main team. Have you never wondered what happens to the rest? Some make into to the lower divisions. Others move to other leagues, other countries, like Cyprus or Luxembourg. But most of them? Most of them are dismissed, asked to leave when they're 15 or 16, sent off with a pat to the back and a "sorry kid, dream's over, see you in another life". We give up so much, our families, a normal childhood, even a normal life, we spent so much time working towards a goal, to play in a stadium, to represent our teams, our countries, to lift a cup in one breathless moment… Football is all the life we know, football is all the life we want to know. Every single day we're under so much pressure, any single moment we can be sent home, while the one thing we've ever truly wanted can be taken away from us because we're just not good enough. And even when we aren't good enough for it, it's still the only thing we've ever felt good enough for."

"That has never happened to you, though." It's not a question. He's done his homework, he knows Enjolras has always been the star in every team he's ever played and even if he hadn't done his research, the fact that Enjolras is here, in front of him, three days before the start of the World Cup is answer enough.

"No, but it's happened to enough of my friends. And I know there are more important things, that plenty of people will tell you that football isn't that important in the grand scheme of things, but it matters. It matters to me, and it matters to a whole lot of people, otherwise we wouldn't be here." His voice is so soft. "I can't imagine giving up football, I can't imagine having to go a day without kicking a ball around."

"It's the choice you've made. Enjolras, it's the choice you wanted to make."

Enjolras relaxes slightly, "Yes, and I don't regret it. But how many kids I grew up with do you think would say otherwise?" He smiles sadly, "There are _so many_people who would give up so much for the chance to be here, to be one of the players chosen to represent their countries and then you have someone liked Maradona, who was so talented and still wasted so much of it and could have been so much more."

He is so close to Grantaire now, who finds himself subconsciously leaning closer, across the space between their chairs. "You're wrong about something, you know."

"Oh?" His voice is barely a whisper.

"It does matter in the great scheme of things. That's why we have World Cups and Euros and _things_ and that's why three days from now people will take to the streets with hope in their hearts, painting their faces, wearing red and blue and white and singing songs of victory… It's important. Of course it's important."

Enjolras smiles, a real smile that lights up both his face and the entire room. He is quiet for a moment. "I really am sorry," he says softly, at last. "You just - got under my skin and - " Grantaire does not think of how adorable he looks when isn't too busy being too insufferable to properly smile. "- and there's been so much pressure lately and everything that you said? That's what everyone else has been saying and I guess I looked at you and saw their faces, and you were talking and I heard their voices." He bites his lip and it really isn't fair. "I really am extremely sorry. Are you quite alright?"

"My head", he replies slowly, "really fucking hurts."

Enjolras chuckles, "So does my hand."

"Good. Maybe next time you'll remember not to punch people in the face. Particularly if they're journalists who can actually get you kicked out of the team." Grantaire is very aware that he'd only have to lean forward a couple of inches to close the distance between them.

From his pocket, the alarm on his phone goes off, breaking the silence between them.

Grantaire mentally curses every God he doesn't even believe in and checks the time on his phone, promptly getting up. "Well… I guess the interview is over. It's been… uh.." He frowns, "… an interesting experience. We should - "

"You should give me your phone number." Enjolras says quickly.

"Do you want to ask me on a date?" He does not miss the way Enjolras' cheeks go slightly pink at this. "Wait, is this what this whole afternoon has been about? Was punching me your sneaky way of pulling my metaphorical pigtails? Because I'm not above actually tying my hair into pigtails for you to have something to pull. Also, if it was, then I don't know who taught you about flirting but that's really not how you're supposed to do it."

Enjolras raises a very sarcastic eyebrow, "I thought that's how you met your girlfriend."

"Ex-girlfriend." Grantaire corrects. "And that was Éponine. She's sort of a… er, unique girl. I wouldn't recommend most people take the same approach to flirting."

"If they did, you'd get punched all the time."

"Yes, thank you, that's - wait what?" Judging by the way Enjolras eyes widen, they both fully registered what he'd said at exactly the same time.

"I mean - What I mean is, you should give me your phone number. So I can be sure you're not dead from a concussion."

Grantaire chooses not to press it for now, hastily scribbling his number in a piece of paper, while one of the team handlers comes to fetch Enjolras for an afternoon practice.

**Enjolras**: Still not dead?

**Grantaire**: wasn't the last time i checked

**Grantaire**: unless i'm some highly concentrated ghost

**Grantaire**: but i hope not, i can't even walk through walls and what's the point in being a ghost if you still have to open doors?

**Enjolras**: I honestly can't tell if you're always like this and I should look into getting you into a madhouse, or if you aren't always like this and I should look into getting you into a hospital.

**Grantaire**: both equally terrifying, i take it?

**Enjolras**: Indeed.

**Enjolras**: Is there really nothing I can do?

**Grantaire**: i'm fine, enjolras. forget about it

**Grantaire**: although

**Grantaire**: i am working on an article and i'm sure you'd like to weigh in

**Grantaire**: and i wouldn't want to pass up another chance to tell you how wrong you are

**Enjolras**: What's it about?

**Grantaire**: the greatest philosophical question of our time

**Enjolras**: Messi or Ronaldo?

**Grantaire**: Messi or Ronaldo.


	3. Chapter 3

On his first article about France's chances in the World Cup, Grantaire wrote that the team reminded him of headless chickens. It is, perhaps, not the kindest thing he's ever written but it's also not the _unkindest_, and he feels like it is a fair comparison as the team's playing style is basically what he imagined would happen if he took eleven chickens, yelled at them about defensive tactics, put them in a football pitch, hoped none of them would get distracted by flashlights, crossed his fingers and hoped for the best. The chickens may even spend less time on personal grooming than the human players, so Javert at least ought to be happy, if not the female fans. Grantaire feels like chicken football would be a considerable step up from the current team and makes a mental note to email someone about it, underlining the fact that you could always eat the chickens after a game, so at least they're not as completely useless as the humans players. To be fair, he supposes that human players can _technically_ also be eaten but French authorities don't look kindly on cannibalism and Grantaire was saving his inevitable life sentence for something special (like strangling whoever thought tiki-taka would be a good idea) and not for committing cannibalism because a football match left him feeling peckish.

Chickens aside and all things considered, it really comes as no surprise to him when, three days after his interview with Enjolras, France gets trashed by Peru. To be fair here, he doubts it comes as a surprise to anyone, except perhaps Enjolras, special delusional snowflake chicken that he is.

Grantaire doesn't really want to have to write about France in the World Cup. He's long since accepted that the one unspoken truth about football players is that while there are many things they need to be great at - shooting, dribbling, passing, tackling, heading, defending, the ability to work under overwhelming pressure - there is only one they must excel at - the ability to come together as a team and collectively make their supporters want to set themselves on fire. He also feels like this explains the one unspoken truth about football fans, which is how absolutely miserable football makes them most of the time. And it's not so much that Grantaire cares about France or France's chances in the competition and it's not even the fact that France is going to lose that bothers him. He expects that. It's that they have to do it in such a spectacularly boring fashion. He understands the need for defensive tactics in football. It doesn't mean he has to appreciate it.

It has, of course, been a long time since a football defeat has made Grantaire miserable - he is vaguely reminded of 2006 and an awful night when even France's greatest hero came crashing down to Earth, proving to be just as mortal and fallible as everyone else, but he is most definitely not going to think about that when he's still sober. And it's really not like he's trying to be ungrateful. He isn't, he's perfectly aware that people all over the world would sacrifice their firstborns to their Gods for a chance to be here (and Grantaire is perfectly aware that their gods aren't the same as other people, they are Maradona and Pele and Zidane and Ronaldo), but none of those people have to write about France's campaign in the World Cup. Because, even though watching a football game still sends a thrill down his spine that nothing else ever will, and he'd rather never touch a drink again then have to give up watching football, having to write about his country being slaughtered in the most boring fashion possible in front of the entire world isn't particularly fun for him.

It wouldn't be so bad if he could just cover teams that weren't France but the guy originally assigned to liveblog France's first match had come down with food poisoning (Grantaire wonders if he'd had any chicken recently) and it had all fallen on Grantaire, who'd had to sit in front of his laptop for the whole miserable 90 minutes and attempt to write semi-coherent comments about it.

Suffice to say, he failed completely. He neither has nor wants a brain-to-keyboard filter (he doesn't truly have a brain-to-mouth filter either, but that's a different story), so writing a live report about a game, one he can't edit later, is just asking for trouble.

Grantaire likes trouble.

And, granted, France's ludicrous display in the match gave him plenty to work with. A 3-0 defeat in their first match, truly awful defending on set pieces, zero shots on target, a ridiculous blunder by Montparnasse, who was apparently flirting with someone on the stands during Peru's second goal and two yellow cards for Enjolras all came together in order to make the duration of the match into 90 of the most awfully pathetic minutes of football Grantaire has ever watched.

On the plus side, he goes to sleep that night with a smile on his face, thinking he might just have been enough of an asshole to never be asked to cover a France game in this World Cup again.

—

In what feels like 30 minutes later, his phone starts ringing and Grantaire viciously decides to kill whoever is on the other end of the line (unless it is someone calling him about his chicken idea, in which case they might be allowed to live if they give him full credit). Regardless of who it is and what they want, it is too fucking early for it and Grantaire does the only sensible thing - he hides his head under his pillow and passive-aggressively ignores his phone, hoping it will go away. Unfortunately, it doesn't work and the phone keeps ringing, starting up again every time it stops.

Whoever is calling him will be tied to a chair and forced to watch France's matches. It is somehow a more terrible punishment than death.

He doesn't even bother getting his head from under the pillow, just gropes around blindly on the bedside table for his cellphone and, once he finds it, presses a few buttons that he hopes will accept the call and put the phone on loudspeaker. At once static fills Grantaire's hotel room, so at least something's working for him this morning.

"Are you calling me about my chicken idea?" he grumbles from under his pillow.

There is a pause from the other end of the line, "…What?"

Enjolras' not-so-dulcet tones greet him and there is no way Grantaire can deal with this without an elephant sized cup of coffee. Annoying Enjolras into hanging up so that Grantaire may go back to bed and have whatever this conversation is supposed to be when he's actually awake may be his best approach here, so he says: "'Are you calling for phone sex? Because if you are, fuck off and call me four hours from now. If you aren't, fuck off and call me four hours from now anyway. Some of us need our beauty sleep."

"I have a question," Enjolras says and Grantaire can hear the disapproval in his voice, even across the static.

Dealing with Enjolras' temper was _not_ how Grantaire was intending to start his day, but he's quite sure that's what's going to happen. "This ought to be good. What do you want?" he asks, burrowing further under his pillow.

"I was just wondering - do you actually train to be an asshole when you're home alone or does it just come naturally to you?" Enjolras questions.

At last Grantaire gets his head from under the pillow and sits up on the bed, laughing. "I told you - it's a gift."

"Do you even think about the things you type? Or do you just cross your fingers and hope for the best?"

"Enjolras, seriously - it is way too fucking early for this. Can we flirt with each other when I'm actually awake for it?"

Enjolras ignores him completely. He tends to do that a lot. "I read your liveblog of our match."

"Would you like a cookie for that?"

"How can you even - You know what, whatever. You like being a sarcastic douchebag, fine. You could actually have written in some semblance of constructive criticism, rather than just making it a running joke about barricades -"

"At least I didn't compare you to chickens this time." Grantaire interrupts soothingly, "That was something. I think it shows character growth."

"I am not even going acknowledge that you compared us to headless chickens. I will acknowledge, however, that before the match even started you referred to our formation as an 'actual french barricade.'"

"Yes, and it was hilarious."

"A joke you then proceeded to run into the ground, by referring to Peru as The National Guard and comparing us to the Revolutionaries of 1832 -"

"Who, in case anyone neglected to tell you, lost. So if you could just change your tactics, that'd be much appreciated."

"You still weren't happy and did a head count on the website comments of how many people would be willing to throw down their furniture for our barricade. "

He actually hadn't meant to do that - someone had commented asking him what he'd do when the barricade fell and he'd said something about supporting Russia because of the vodka and then someone else had replied offering their chairs to help keep the barricade in place and it all had sort of escalated from there. For Enjolras' benefit, he says, "Yes, and you'd be surprised how many people actually replied. The amount of women online willing to donate their underwear to your barricade alone would blow your mind."

Enjolras, again, ignores him. "And then, of course, half-time came and to celebrate the end of the first half you decided to record and upload a video of yourself singing a song about how you had a dream this match would be so different from this hell you were watching." He pauses. "For the record, you can't sing."

"Fuck you, I have a lovely singing voice." He can somehow hear the eyeroll from across the line, but he has no idea how that's even possible.

"The second half continued in much the same vein, until, of course, you got bored and proceeded to write porn about Peru and France, while rambling on about how this match is a perfect example of what happens when you forget to set a safeword and that you hoped that Peru had at least bought France some croissants first."

Enjolras is probably only jealous because Grantaire wrote porn about France cheating on him. "Yes, and you're just jealous because France is getting laid and you aren't. I can take care of that if you'd like,"he says with an outrageously suggestive smirk that is wasted on a phone call. Still - the effort ought to count for something.

Enjolras actually snorts at this. "Are you just going to proposition me every time we talk to each other?"

"Everyone needs a hobby. And please notice how I didn't proposition you when you were defending your little hobbit boyfriend - "

There is a long-suffering sigh down the line. "Messi is not my boyfriend."

"Dude, I think your last text message about his left foot actually rhymed."

"Would you rather I waxed poetically about a man who spends more time fixing his hair then passing to his teammates?" Enjolras replies sarcastically.

"And yet, Ronaldo's still manages to win his teams a shitload of trophies. You just don't like him because you don't believe in what you like to call 'personal glory' and what I like to call 'the way the world works, shut the fuck up, Enjolras'," is Grantaire's reply, but they are most definitely not going to get into this discussion again. There is only so much fanboying of any kind Grantaire can put up with on a daily basis, and none of it is before noon. "But nevermind that. Are you actually calling because you are genuinely offended by the report or because you need someone to snarl at and don't want to take out your temper on the rest of the team?"

"I don't snarl."

"You do, actually, and it's adorable". The fact that Grantaire isn't bullshitting him and actually does think _adorable_ is something that scares him. Hot he can work with. Fierce, self-righteous, delusional, replaceable by a chicken he can work with. He has no idea what to do with adorable. He mentally kicks himself because he just can't actually have a crush on France's captain. It's too pathetic, even for him. He pinches his nose, "I mean, you did spend this entire conversation growling at me over what I wrote but made no move to disprove any of my comments during the match, so either you just missed hearing my voice - in which case, I assure you, it sounds much better when I'm not asleep and when it isn't the middle of the night - or you just wanted someone to be mad at."

There is a long silence from the other line and Grantaire snorts, laying back on the bed and putting his arms behind his head.

"I violently dislike you," Enjolras mutters eventually.

"No, if you violently disliked me you'd just ignore me. You just dislike the fact that I'm right. There is a difference, however subtle it might be.

"Go on - tell me it wasn't an awful match. Tell me you agree with Javert's tactics. Tell me that wasn't a pathetic display. Defend the team's performance last night. Tell me you think you have a real chance at winning the Cup if you keep up playing like this."

Enjolras answer comes at once, "We will put on a better performance next time. We just had a bad match." It's cute, really, how sure he actually sounds.

"It's adorable that you believe that. You know, I think I just rolled my eyes so hard I saw my brain - and it tells me you are wasting your time. Or not, considering you got yourself sent off and won't actually have to play in the next match."

Enjolras may actually growl at this. "The first yellow card was necessary, Carrillo would've been isolated and I did what I had to do. The second yellow card was unfair and you know it. Zavala tackled me in the box, everyone could see it, it should have been a yellow for him, not the other way around." He sounds every bit as outrageous as he looked when leaving the field.

He's right, but it wouldn't have changed anything in the match. "You were already down 1-0 and you were being completely outplayed, it wouldn't have made a difference. This way you can actually say you were the first to fall upon the barricades. But if it bothers you so much I'll make a note to just lay back and think of revolution next time I have to see you all play."

Something that sounds decidedly like a chuckle from Enjolras fills the room. "You are impossible."

Grantaire grins. "No, I am adorable. And wait just a second, did anyone actually cry over my article this time? Because that's always a treat."

"No one cried." Enjolras replies at once, but then he pauses, "However, you will be pleased to hear that some of your comments are actually being used as wallpaper on our locker room. As motivation. Please tell me you are covering our next match."

"Alas, no. I have to write an article about racism from the fans and my editor thinks I should have a first hand experience on the stadium. I'll be joining the thousands of miserable frenchmen who, for some reason completely foreign to me, have decided to watch it there."

There is a very thoughtful pause from Enjolras, "Do you want to watch the game with me?"

Grantaire can count on the one hand the number of times a footballer has managed to strike him speechless and still have fingers left. This is one of those times. "Enjolras…"

"I can't watch the match with the rest of the team. Leaving you alone with the rest of the French supporters will only result in bodily harm befalling you. They're less likely to punch you if you're with me." Grantaire suddenly thinks Enjolras may just be trying a bit too hard to sound casual, but promptly blames it on his still-asleep brain.

"Do you promise not to punch me again?"

"For the match? I think I can restrain myself." He pauses. "In the future? Who knows. You are a particularly irritating person." But Grantaire can hear the hint of laughter in his voice.

"My knight in shining French flag. If I say yes, can I go back to bed and can you promise not to call me at dawn again?"

"You do realize, of course, that it's 9 o'clock?"

"Shh, we're on French time."

Enjolras sounds confused, "I meant on French time, it's noon on Russian time now."

"FUCK!" Grantaire yells, jumping out of bed. He was supposed to be at the Italian press conference half an hour ago. His editor will not be pleased, there will be consequences and those will probably include him covering the rest of France's matches. He doesn't actually whimper, but it's close. He is halfway through putting on clean socks before realizing he still hasn't answered Enjolras' question. 'Fine, fine, I'll go with you. If nothing else because you need someone to snark at during the match and you'd make the French on the stands cry. You are a very annoying alarm clock and I am probably a dead man. Goodbye now."

The fact that he can actually hear a short laugh from Enjolras should be his first clue. It isn't. As it stands, he is dressed, out of the door and loudly proclaiming to exchange his (non-existant) firstborn for a cup of coffee before glancing at his watch and realizing it isn't even 9 o'clock yet.

When the revolution comes, he will eat Enjolras first.


	4. Chapter 4

It is time for France's second match and it is a dark and stormy night.

Okay, no. It is time for France's second match and it is a bright and sunny afternoon but Grantaire has always had a penchant for dramatics, so in his mind it is a dark and stormy night.

He has just found his seat in the already mostly-full stadium and _of course_ it is right in the middle of the vast bulk of French supporters, drowning him in a sea of red and blue and white and there's only one option now: he's going to have to kill Enjolras when he shows up and it'll be very sad for everyone involved but that's just the way of the world.

On the pitch below him, the teams are halfway through their warm-ups and Grantaire has already received his first death threat of the day (but probably not his last) and he is now impatiently waiting for Enjolras, half expecting him to show up in a tricolor clown wig and a random assortment of bodypaint scattered all over his body. He is ready to mock. There are going to be jokes. Hilarious jokes. Not as good as his football jokes, but still. Awesome jokes.

And then Enjolras does show up. The bad news is that he is wearing none of those things and all those jokes will go to waste. The really bad news is that he's wearing his national team blue jersey and red pants that fit way too close for Grantaire's general comfort and Grantaire can't remember the last time he wanted to climb anyone more than he wants to climb Enjolras right now and for fuck's sake, doesn't the asshole own _any_ loose fitting pants? And who the hell even _wears_ red pants anymore?

The color combination really should be enough to make Grantaire want to punch him in the face, just out of sheer principle. It makes him want to kiss him instead. _Fucking blondes, fucking France, fucking football, fucking hormones, fucking hot footballers, fucking Enjolras with his stupid fucking shiny hair._

"For the love of God, Enjolras, has a French flag thrown up all over you?" He asks with an impassive face, because he's still _himself_ and being impertinent just comes second nature to him. Besides, Enjolras would probably find it strange if he was polite.

The blonde shrugs, sitting down besides Grantaire. "There is nothing wrong with dressing like you're going to a football match when you _are_ indeed going to a football match." He glares at Grantaire's black shirt like it's personally offended him. "There is, however, no need to look like you're going to a funeral when you are, in fact, going to a football match."

"Oh, but black looks so striking against my pale skin." Grantaire bats his eyelashes excessively and Enjolras rolls his eyes with a long-suffering sigh.

"So," Grantaire drawls. "How's life at the barricades been treating you?"

"I think you're just supposed to say 'hello' nowadays. Has no one ever taught you good manners?"

"Has your coach never taught you how to properly defend during a match?" And wow, Enjolras has been here for less than a minute and they're already arguing with each other. Must be a personal record, even for Grantaire. He resignedly decides to, _God help him_, make an effort. "That was mean. It was _right_, but it was also mean." He smiles tentatively, because being nice is not something he is used to. "How are you?"

Enjolras shrugs, staring longingly at the pitch. Grantaire supposes there's his answer.

"Nevermind how I am, how are you?" He pauses. "Er, how is your head?"

"My head is as fine as it has ever been. And I am having the weirdest day ever." Grantaire complains dramatically.

"What have you done _now_?" Enjolras asks, with the ever present _you idiot_ hanging unsaid at the end of the sentence.

It isn't so much what he has done. It's mostly what has happened to him.

The day had actually started normal. He'd woken up with a bitch of a hangover, which wasn't particularly unusual for him and, in his defense, he _had_ been covering Russia's match the previous day and you just could not write about the country that invented vodka in a remotely sober state. It's _Russia_, there are laws against that sort of thing. Probably. And if there aren't, there should be.

Still - hangover, quick shower. That had been normal. And after the shower, when he remembered that France was playing Sweden and seriously considered putting on a yellow shirt just to annoy people in the stadium - totally normal. Of course, he eventually settled on black to better mourn the loss of his will to live during the pitiful 90 minutes of football that were sure to happen later but the intention still counted. And it had also been normal to bitch online about France's non-existent chances in the game and forwarding all his hate mail to Cosette.

And that's about where normal ends because Grantaire has reacted to upcoming matches in many different ways, but freaking out over whether or not he has a _date_ with France's captain is a first for him. And then there's the freaking out over whether or not he wants it to be a date and then there's even more freaking out when he realizes he does want it to be a date and then he further freaks out because he doesn't know if he _should_ want it to be a date. It's possible he may have gotten a bit carried away. Still. He doesn't know what it is and he doesn't know what he should want. It's exhausting and he has no idea what to do, so he does the only sane thing he can do - he ignores it completely and walks out of his hotel room to meet Enjolras in the stadium while _thoroughly_ not thinking about it.

Enjolras, obviously, cannot be told any of this. He can, however, be told what happened when Grantaire got to the stadium.

"Zlatan Ibrahimovic just threatened to kill me." Grantaire replies in a rush and he probably shouldn't sound as delighted about it as he does, but if he _had_ died, he wouldn't have to watch the following match. Unless, of course, there _is_ a Hell, it which case he'll probably just be stuck in this football stadium with no alcohol (and no Enjolras) watching France play football for eternity (and he'd like the world to know that he's using the expression "play football" in the loosest possible sense of the words). The thought makes him yearn for the good old days, when all demons did was skin you alive, possibly to a Justin Bieber soundtrack.

Enjolras groans. "Oh god, you can't have been here for more than five minutes. What did you even do?"

"I may have sort of spilled my drink on him? Don't give me that look, Enjolras, I _tripped_. I don't purposefully go out of my way to annoy footballers - well, I might do now to annoy you because you do look adorably like a Cocker Spaniel when you're angry - but it was an _accident_. And he turned to me and said 'you spilled your drink on Zlatan's shirt, you will die now.' but then I guess he recognized me because he patted my head and said 'you are funny, tiny human. God to the people of Sweden will allow you to live this one time and that was that." And Grantaire is aware that there might just be a slightly dazed look on his face. "Do you know, I think I just fell in love."

"You have no standards." Enjolras says.

And that it isn't exactly fair - Grantaire has standards, _everyone_ has standards, Grantaire's just happen to be _extremely_ questionable most of the time. Which explains why he's sitting on a football stadium, about to spend the next couple of hours probably trying to convince one very frustrated Enjolras that he can't jump into the pitch, no matter how much he might want to. He should've brought manacles.

"I should have brought manacles" He says regretfully. "And _fuck_ you, I have exquisite standards. He's just very - Zlatan. He's very Zlatan." He throws up his hands. "It's _glorious_."

"You do have a thing for the assholes in the game, don't you?" Enjolras asks disapprovingly.

"You just don't understand Zlatan Ibrahimovic. Zlatan Ibrahimovic is to Zlatan Ibrahimovic like Kanye West is to Kanye West."

"He's terribly self-centered." Enjolras says.

"Oh please, you _all_ are." Grantaire scoffs. "But nowadays everyone tries _so fucking hard_ to pretend they're all nice and sweet and self-righteous about the whole thing. It's bullshit. It's nauseating. And it's all an act." He shrugs. "Of course it is. And then every once in a while an asshole comes along. And sure, they're unbearably obnoxious most of the time, but at least they're _honest_ about it. I appreciate honesty."

"So you think I'm pretending to be nice and sweet and self-righteous about football?" Enjolras asks slowly.

Grantaire considers this, while staring at the teams leaving the pitch, finally done with their warm-ups. "Like I said, you _all_ are. In the end of the day you're all overglorified, overpaid assholes who do what most people can only dream of doing, but still spend most of their time fixing their hair in the mirror and thinking they're better than everyone else because they can kick a ball around. And then most of you are told that you have to play nice and fit into this nifty little box of humbleness and nicety if you want the press to like you and of course you because getting the press to like you is the first step to winning individual awards, which you want to, and so you all play along. It's bullshit. It's perfectly fine if you want everyone to throw their man panties at you, but at least be honest about it."

"What?" Enjolras gasps. "I don't want people to throw their man panties at me. Or their woman panties. Or - "

"What do you want, then?" Grantaire interrupts.

"I want to win. But I don't want to win because I want to win awards and get magazine covers and be given things. I want to win for the fans. I want to win because when we're on a pitch, we have a chance to do something most people would die for. And we aren't just playing for us. We are playing first and foremost for them. For everyone who can't be on the pitch. For every single person who would bleed and scream and die for their team during a match and will never have the chance to do it. So all we can do is be the very best we can be. And it's about honouring the history of the team we represent as well, because football is more than a sport and a football team is so much more than just a sports team and _you know_ it is. It's about hopes and dreams meeting each other and it's about making people happy. And if you have a chance to win something for your country, how can you not want to give everything you have?" He is passion personified, lovely and bright and oh so beautiful and _oh fuck, this is a thing, isn't it, Enjolras actually believes this shit._ "You're free to like whoever you want, of course, but a football pitch should be a place for team spirit and, for once, putting the individualities out of the way, not for big egos."

"I like big egos and I cannot lie." Grantaire deadpans. He frowns at Enjolras. "You're one of those moronic assholes who still thinks team spirit and club loyalty still mean something, aren't you?"

"But they do! Can't you see that?" And Grantaire knows this won't last. Some kids start out like this, all wide-eyed and idealistic but it never lasts. There is always someone, an agent or a club, waving a shiny contract with lots and lots of zeroes and idealism flies out of the window. It's just the way the world works.

"Football careers are short and you are all overpaid assholes. Make the most of it while you can, win as many trophies as possible and if people want to throw their underwear at you, well, just enjoy it."

"Look - " Enjolras starts, but he is interrupted by the loud beeping of his cellphone. He frowns at the screen with his mouth firmly set and a worried look in his eyes and Grantaire feels the need to speak.

"Everything okay?"

Enjolras sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not really sure. Courfeyrac texted to know where we are. He did the warm-up with the rest of the team, but I think Javert sent him to the stands afterwards."

Grantaire can't really be surprised by this. Courfeyrac has never been known for his ability to know when to shut up - probably the reason why he's the one everyone always wants to interview - and allowing the press to shove a microphone in his face right after France's miserable first match probably wasn't the brightest idea anyone ever had. If there were any doubts about where the team stood regarding Javert's terrible defensive tactics they were pretty much answered the moment Courfeyrac decided to say that a team that does not try to score goals cannot expect to score goals. And then proceeded to make his point about the entire situation.

Grantaire can't see this coming as a surprise to Enjolras either, but, if he didn't know better, he would say that Enjolras did not want them to be interrupted. However, he does know better, so he puts it down as Enjolras being annoyed that France isn't starting her best winger.

"Yes, of course it's okay." He says and Enjolras smiles softly at him.

He quickly taps something into his cellphone before turning back to Grantaire. "Football isn't just about winning. It's about playing the game, it's about fair play, it's about deserving to win -"

"Oh god, _please_ spare me the unbearable Xaviness of being."

Enjolras ignores him. "If you hate everything in football so much, why do you bother?"

Grantaire considers this. "Because I don't hate football?" At Enjolras' snort he adds. "No, shut up. You can enjoy the sport without, you know, the usual selling of your soul to a football team."

"But what's the point in that? Football is about passion and excitement and all those things that make you jump out of your chair in ecstasy."

Grantaire snorts. "Which really makes up for all those times your teams suck, I'm sure. Every single, every fucking season, you all just click your heels together and say 'we're going to kick ass this time!' and you know what? No one ever does, because football fundamentally makes people unhappy. Take this lovely World Cup, for example. Thirty-two teams are competing. That's thirty-two countries. That's... a huge number of people? Stop looking at me like that, I'm _really bad_ with maths. Anyway, out of all these countries, thirty-one will be absolutely miserable by the end of the competition -"

"Not everyone is about winning, though - "

"If you tell me that people come all the way to Russia to see their country _participate_ in the World Cup, I swear to God I am throwing you over the edge of the stadium."

Enjolras shrugs. "They _do_, though. Take Peru, for example - "

"Oh, by all means, let's talk about the team that thoroughly kicked your asses - "

Enjolras, as usual, ignores him. "Peruvian people don't expect Peru to win the World Cup. Not really. Neither do most countries participating. They just expect their national teams to come here and do the absolute best they can, and in return they just support the team out of love and pride for their country. It's beautiful. And sometimes teams can surprise you, you know. In the end, sometimes you do win and it's all worth it."

"Which, odds are, happens one out of thirty-two times."

"I don't get how you can enjoy football without caring about it."

"I just told you. And stop smiling at me like that, that's creepy." He considers this. "_Why_ are you smiling at me like that?"

"You just went from saying we had to chance at all to saying we had one chance out of thirty-two. I like to count my victories where I can." And he somehow manages to say that with only a hint of sarcasm on his voice.

"And you say _I_ am impossible." Grantaire says, trying to sound stern, but the corners of his mouth twist up.

"I still think we can win."

"And I still think you can't. I'm not usually wrong about football, Enjolras." And he isn't. Not really. Sure, sometimes football is a game of chance, and sometimes teams that don't deserve to win do, but just dumb luck is never enough to win any trophies. And at least a set of potential winners is always easy to predict, and France is not part of that.

"Someone who didn't know better would say that you think our starting eleven is nothing but a bunch of traffic cones."

"I think the words I used were 'headless chickens'."

"Grantaire, can you _please_ - "

"_Fine_. You aren't traffic cones, or even headless chickens. In fact, most of you aren't, individually, the worse thing to ever happen to football but - "

"Oh, praise the lord," Enjolras says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about us."

"Shut up." Grantaire says pleasantly. "Look, it's like trying to make a cake. I can have all these great ingredients but if someone sets the oven temperature wrong, it's still going to be a crap cake, you know?"

"Actually, no." Enjolras looks at him like he's crazy " - and why is everything about food with you?"

"I could've done an alcohol metaphor but I don't think your delicate footbalistic sensibilities would have understood it. All you delicious chickens are the ingredients that make the cake, yes? Javert is the oven - or rather, he's the person who sets the oven temperature because imagining you all inside Javert is just so wrong on so many levels."

"So all our problems can be summarized as Javert?" Enjolras asks, nodding to himself.

"Not _just_ Javert and I've written sonnets about how you all suck, jesus fucking christ Enjolras, do you even pay attention? Sometimes ingredients just don't go well together or - "

"Really, first chickens, now cake. What is it with you and comparing the French team to food?"

"And I haven't even started on the croissant analogies." Grantaire laughs. "But, like I was saying if you are a great cook like me - "

"Am I actually supposed to believe you can cook? Or do you mean in the football sense?"

"Both senses and I will have you know I am an excellent cook."

"Of course you are." Enjolras says, looking completely unconvinced.

"Oh, ye of little faith. I'll have you know I make an awesome chocolate cake." By which he means he _orders_ an awesome chocolate cake. Still, there are things Enjolras does not have to know.

"I really, really doubt that."

"Oh, _fuck you_, when's your day off?"

Enjolras narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Tomorrow, we never have practice after a match. _Why_?"

Grantaire lowers his voice meaningfully. "I am baking you a cake and you are going to stop insulting my baking skills." He doesn't really let himself think about the reasons he's offering to bake a cake - or, you know, _order_ a cake - for Enjolras.

"Oh." Enjolras says softly, sounding surprised at the invitation. "I'd like that but - raincheck?" He bites his lip again and Grantaire has to stop himself from offering to bite it for him. He really doesn't know him well enough to be sure, but he thinks there may just be a hint of regret in Enjolras' voice. "I'd like to, I'd _really_ like to, but I should stay with the team and I need to train my free kicks. Maybe when the World Cup is over, we can - "

"I'm sorry, journalist dude," an amused voice interrupts and Grantaire finds himself looking up into Courfeyrac's laughing face, "that is Enjolrasian speak for 'sure, I'd love to, what's your address?' By the way, you two are _adorable_."

"Courfeyrac." Enjolras says, "What are you doing here?"

"Oh god," Grantaire groans. "Please no philosophy discussions when I'm regrettably sober." He narrows his eyes. "But _you_ shouldn't be here. _You_ should be on the pitch."

Courfeyrac shrugs. "I thought you said I could be replaced by a chicken."

Grantaire considers this. "Yeah, but I still bet good money on France losing and you catching the Snitch."

"What?" Enjolras asks and _of course_ he doesn't get Harry Potter references.

Courfeyrac laughs, good-humoured, sitting down in the empty seat besides Enjolras. "You still compared me to a _chicken_." he says to Grantaire and tries to look offended, but there is too much laughter in his voice for Grantaire to take it seriously.

"No," Grantaire replies at once, leaning across Enjolras to better speak to Courfeyrac. "I compared you all to chickens." He pauses and then adds reassuringly, "But you have nothing to worry about. You're a very good-looking chicken. Make all the girl chickens go 'cluck cluck."

Courfeyrac bursts out laughing and Enjolras folds his arms across his chest, alternating between looking annoyed and confused. "Should I leave you two alone?" he asks, through clenched teeth.

Courfeyrac pats Enjolras shoulder comfortingly. "It could be worse. At least he isn't writing porn about France this time."

"Yet." Enjolras corrects. "At least he isn't writing porn about France _yet_. Give him time."

Grantaire frowns at him. "I could be, though. It's not that hard." He pauses for dramatic effect and then, with a lofty voice, says, "Let me ask you something, France. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all? Or do you want me to make you my little bitch for 90 minutes straight? Because I think you like my kinky fuckery, France. What does your inner goddess say? What do _you_ say?"

Enjolras hides his face in his hands. "Fifty Shades of Grey? _Seriously_?" he asks in disbelief.

"Shut up, I lost a bet. You don't know me, you don't know my life." Grantaire says defensively, "Wait, are you fucking kidding me? You don't get a Harry Potter reference but you get Fifty Shades of Grey?"

"Courfeyrac has started to quote it in his sleep." Enjolras says, with the air of one who has seen all the horrors of the world.

Courfeyrac sticks out his tongue at Enjolras, "At least I don't snore. Like you."

"I don't snore, Courfeyrac." Enjolras says indignantly.

"How do you two know each other's sleep habits?" Grantaire asks, and tells himself the feeling in his chest isn't jealousy.

"Javert insists on double beds. He says it's good for building team spirit." Courfeyrac replies with a long-suffering sigh. "It wouldn't be so bad if we could choose our roommates but we drew straws and I, unfortunately, got stuck with a guy who says Patria in his sleep."

"That's what _you_ call your inner goddess." Enjolras says, shooting him a murderous look.

"Yes, and I blame that one on you." Courfeyrac winks at Enjolras, but then sighs and adds, "I miss having a single room. And I _miss_ Lamarque. He let us sleep wherever we wanted. And he always said "please" whenever he told us to do something during a match."

"And afterwards you got a cookie?"

Grantaire isn't surprised to find out the team misses Lamarque. After the mess that had been their performances in the last Euro - _in their own country_ and for the love of god if you're going to make a spectacle of yourself at least have the decency to not do it _at home_ - Lamarque had been one of the few people willing to take over the team. Surprisingly, it kind of worked. He took a group broken into pieces, called in a lot of new players and turned them into an actual team rather than a random collection of football playing individuals. Unfortunately for everyone, he had to quit due to health reasons and Javert had taken over mid-qualifiers, making it a wonder that France even qualified at at all.

Courfeyrac snorts. "Aw, Enjolras, you never said he was funny as well as pretty. I _like_ him. He can stay."

Enjolras crosses his arms and looks very much like he would glaring at both of them if he wasn't standing in the middle of them.

Courfeyrac gives him the wickedest smirk Grantaire has ever seen as France and Sweden return to the pitch, finally ready for the match to begin. "Seriously, though, you two really are adorable. All this Angel-Spike thing you got going on. I dig it. I want to go online and read the stories people will write about you two."

Grantaire tries to process this. Comes up blank. "I'm sorry, what?"

Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows suggestively. "Everyone needs a hobby, you know. I read fanfiction."

"Couldn't you just watch porn like the rest of the team?" It's nothing short of amazing just how much suffering Enjolras can put into such simple words.

"What makes you think I don't watch porn as well? I have _lots_ of hobbies." Courfeyrac drawls.

"What you have is too much free time." Enjolras says.

Courfeyrac chuckles. "It's fun. Oh, the things the internet can come up with! Although I am afraid I am not quite as bendy as the internet has been led to believe."

Grantaire bursts out laughing and he can't help but like Courfeyrac.

And then it's time for the national anthems and _of fucking course_ Enjolras drags him up for La Marseillaise and of course he and Courfeyrac join in with the thousands of french supporters singing along, _fucking patriotic assholes._

"You could've _sang_." Enjolras accuses as they sit back down and the Swedish national anthem starts playing.

Grantaire grins. "I can't sing. It's very sad, you shouldn't judge me for that."

"I dreamed a dream this match would be, so different from this hell I'm watching?" Enjolras says in a flat, emotionless tone, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

"Well - " Grantaire starts.

"But the French come at night, with their defense as bad as - "

"Alright, so I do sing. But only for art!"

"Football _is_ art!" Enjolras snaps, as the Swedish anthem ends and the teams start to take their places on the field.

"Oh, shut up." Grantaire snaps back.

"Ready?" Courfeyrac asks, interrupting their argument.

"Yes." Enjolras says.

"Night gathers," Grantaire says darkly as the ref blows his whistle. "and now my watch begins."


	5. Chapter 5

"Why won't you just concede that we at least have a chance?" Enjolras asks, without looking away from the match and pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Grantaire sighs. The match started fifteen minutes ago and nothing has happened apart from France being awful at defending and Sweden being awful at attacking. It's like a match made in very boring hell and Grantaire really wishes he could say that he's surprised, but he really, really isn't. Chances already were their midfield was going to fall apart without Enjolras there and making Courfeyrac sit out the game is probably the best way to make sure that attacking is something that only happens to other teams.

"I won't concede that you even have a chance, darling Enjolras, because the Bible says Adam and Eve, not France and World Cup," Grantaire replies with a grin and, at Enjolras' groan, he adds, "It's okay, I'm sure France will one day meet a nice trophy and settle down. Have you ever considered Eurovision, perhaps?"

"Shut up," Enjolras says, throwing his hands up in frustration. "I have no idea why I am actually putting up with you."

"I think it's because you think he's pretty," Courfeyrac says, in a tone that would be described as helpful if it were coming from anyone else. He gives Grantaire a quick once-over with a flirtatious smirk firm on his face. "He really is pretty."

"Oh god," Enjolras says, sounding horrified. "Please don't encourage him."

Courfeyrac shrugs. "I think he's funny. And if you're going to kill someone, I want a first row seat so I can take pictures and comment on your technique." He pauses to leer at Enjolras, arching an amused eyebrow and then leans closer to him, before whispering conspiratorially, "And by 'kill someone' I obviously meant bend them over a seat and - "

Enjolras' ears turn slightly pink at this and he immediately slaps a hand over Courfeyrac's mouth, still without looking away from the match. Even Grantaire has to admit it's impressive, if not very democratic of him. "Courfeyrac, I swear to God - Keep talking and maybe I'll kill you," Enjolras threatens through gritted teeth. "And by kill I mean kill."

Grantaire groans. It's going to be a very long match. Still, he has begun to like Courfeyrac. It's hard not to, with his easy laugh and the natural inclination to annoy Enjolras. "I'm afraid I can't let you kill him. If you do it, I'll tell everyone you were wearing Britney Spears' red latex jumpsuit from Oops I Did It Again in our first interview," he threatens.

"I doubt anyone will actually believe that," Enjolras says, unfazed.

Grantaire shrugs. "You haven't seen my photoshop skills yet."

Enjolras rolls his eyes and Courfeyrac makes a noise which, even muffled by Enjolras' hand, can only be described as cooing.

And then, judging by the way Enjolras actually jumps in his seat and immediately removes his hand from Courfeyrac's mouth, Grantaire's quite sure that Courfeyrac has actually licked his way to freedom of speech.

"Seriously, though," Courfeyrac says with a wicked grin on his face, now that he is free to speak once more, "You are going to have cake with him tomorrow. Otherwise I'm going to follow you all day singing The Climb. You know I will. "

"Oh, please no." Enjolras shudders. "You really can't sing, Courfeyrac."

"Yes, I can." Courfeyrac says.

"No, you can't. This idiot here?" Enjolras says, and still without looking away from the pitch, points to Grantaire. "Unfortunately, can. You? Not so much."

"Dear diary, today Enjolras told me I could sing," Grantaire says in a girly, high-pitched squeal and he doesn't miss the way the corners of Enjolras' mouth turn up almost imperceptibly at this.

On Enjolras' other side, Courfeyrac pouts. "You know, my mother always told me I was a lovely singer."

"It's possible your mother may have lied to you, Courfeyrac. Everytime you open your mouth to sing my entire life passes before my eyes," Enjolras says. "Anyway, shut up, we're here to watch the match."

"Cup of tea, cup of tea, almost got shagged, cup of tea?" Grantaire asks curiously and a faint blush colours Enjolras' cheeks, even though he looks like he's trying his best to ignore them.

"He doesn't even like tea, you know," Courfeyrac remarks, with a very long-suffering sigh.

"Of course he doesn't like tea, tea is something people drink to relax, why would he ever want to do something to help him relax?" Grantaire asks sarcastically.

"He says he doesn't see what's so relaxing about putting weeds in his tea," Courfeyrac says, as Enjolras does his best to ignore them and focus on the game.

"Oh my god," Grantaire groans, hiding his face in his hands.

"Indeed," Courfeyrac agrees, but then his face wrinkles in a frown. "But I don't think Enjolras is a very good Giles. Buffy, I can see, but a Watcher? Not really."

Grantaire considers this. "So Enjolras is Buffy, you're clearly Cordelia -"

"Thank you, I loved Cordelia. Great fashion sense, that one."

"But who does that make me - Faith? I really don't have an ass for leather pants, Courfeyrac," Grantaire complains.

"On the contrary," Enjolras says, lost in the game and clearly without paying any attention at all to the words coming out of his mouth, "you have a love - " And then, his mouth appears to catch up with his brain, as his eyes go unbelievably wide and his face goes absolutely, completely red. It may just be the most glorious thing Grantaire has ever seen.

Grantaire opens his mouth to speak and no words come out. It appears that he's reached one of those rare times when he has no idea what to say. He turns to Courfeyrac, expecting an explosion of sexual innuendo and witty commentary, but an odd, thoughtful look has settled on Courfeyrac's face and he stays surprisingly silent.

The moment stretches on uncomfortably.

"You two watch the fucking game and shut up," Enjolras finally hisses at both of them and crosses his arms over his chest. Grantaire can't help but be strongly reminded of a cat whose tail just got stepped on.

The tips of Enjolras' ears stay red for the rest of the first half of the match and, even considering how pathetic France's performance is being, Grantaire can't remember the last time he had this much fun. Granted, he suspects it may be due to the fact that he spends the whole time watching Enjolras instead of watching the match.

Because, when it comes right down to it, Enjolras really is very interesting to watch. He won't stay still for more than thirty seconds - he twitches and shifts in his seat and jumps up half a dozen times in frustration and his hair is a complete mess because he won't stop pulling on it and his lower lip really does not need to be bitten as much as it's being bitten. He is absolutely mesmerizing to watch and Grantaire finds himself unable to look away.

It's more than Enjolras' looks, though, he realizes with a startle. Sure, he has whole blond and blue-eyed and super hot thing going for him, which is a definite plus, but he also radiates passion out of every pore. It's true that his looks make him all the lovelier, but Grantaire suspects that he will one day be eighty and grey and old, and watching him then will still be just as enthralling as it is now.

This could be dangerous, a part of him thinks.

I don't care, another, louder, part says.

Grantaire's almost sorry when half-time comes. What he is not sorry for, however, is when Courfeyrac gets up to use the bathroom.

"So," Grantaire finally says, ignoring the way Enjolras seems to be doing his best to ignore him.

"I don't suppose I could ask you to never bring leather pants up again?" Enjolras asks ruefully.

"That depends," Grantaire says, lowering his voice to a whisper and leaning closer to Enjolras, as he tries his best not to overthink his next words. "Are you going to let me bake you cake on a date tomorrow?"

"Oh," Enjolras says, also in a whisper. "Is that - is that supposed to be like an actual date?"

"Again, that depends - Do you want it to be a date?"

Enjolras smiles softly and leans so close to Grantaire that he can count every single one of Enjolras' eyelashes. Grantaire is extremely aware of just how close Enjolras is and just how little effort it would take him to close the distance between them.

"Yes," Enjolras says finally in a barely audible whisper, with the same soft smile on his face. "But maybe we should wait -"

"Excuse me, Mr. Enjolras, can I have your autograph?" A very young, very female voice interrupts them and the moment is lost. As Enjolras turns to smile down at a little girl who can't be any older than five, Grantaire is violently brought back down to Earth. What the hell did he think he was doing? What the hell are him and Enjolras doing? And in a football stadium, of all places?

"Of course," Enjolras says to the girl, smiling at her and quickly signing the piece of paper she hands him. Before leaving, she stands on tiptoes to lay a loud kiss to Enjolras' cheek, and then runs off to her mother, with an adorable blush on her cheeks.

"I think you just made a five years-old fall in love with you," Grantaire says, to avoid an uncomfortable silence settling between them.

"I didn't do anything," Enjolras says defensively. "I just stood here."

"Oh, but you did. You're always doing something, that's the fucking problem." And it's possible Grantaire really should learn when to shut up.

Enjolras stares at him, confusion clear in his eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're very... well, very. It's extremely distracting to five years-olds. And to people of all other ages as well."

"Whatever this is supposed to be - Please, don't start?" Enjolras asks, running a hand through his hair.

Grantaire shrugs and the uncomfortable silence he had been trying to avoid settles between them as Grantaire desperately tries to think of a safe topic of conversation.

"Do you want to - " Grantaire says.

"Maybe we should - " Enjolras says at the same.

Well, that wasn't awkward at all, Grantaire's brain supplies helpfully.

"So," he says eventually. "Have you always wanted to be a wide-eyed superstar football player with no common sense?" Being impolite will at least stop the awkwardness, he supposes.

"Yes," Enjolras replies immediately. "Have you always wanted to be an asshole?"

"I keep telling you that's a gift. I'm quite sure that if you ask my father, he'll tell you that I have always been an asshole," Grantaire says with a shrug, even though his daddy issues are probably not something you should bring up on a first date - assuming this is what that is, and he's still not sure. When Enjolras frowns at him, Grantaire adds, "Which is probably a conversation for another time. Would you believe me if I told you I am trying very hard to keep this nice and easy and civil?"

"Considering I've seen your behavior when you don't try to keep things nice and easy and civil, yes," Enjolras deadpans.

"Right," Grantaire says. Out on the field, the referee blows the whistle signaling for the beginning of the second half. Both Enjolras and Grantaire ignore him. "Although I suppose at this point the best way to keep things nice and easy and civil would probably be to complain about Javert. I mean, it's quite obvious that secrecy ship has pretty much sailed at this point."

"Don't print that," Enjolras says at once, but then he frowns and shakes his head. "Or do, actually. I don't care anymore. It's more than him being an awful coach. I've had awful coaches and I still managed to work with them. But no one likes him. He doesn't listen to anything we tell him and Heaven forbid anyone says anything that goes against what he believes in. And he's mean to Jehan - he's always going on and on about how aproper football player should be like or act like. It's disgusting. I'll never understand how he got the job on the first place."

Grantaire probably shouldn't laugh at this, but he can't help it. "Well," he says, with what he hopes is a very obnoxious grin, "When a corrupt old white man loves loves another corrupt old white man very much - "

"Oh goody, a love story," Courfeyrac sing-songs, returning from the bathroom and sitting back down on his seat. "Please continue."

Grantaire rolls his eyes carelessly. "That's pretty much it. When is anything related to football about actual merit rather than about money?"

"What?" Enjolras gasps.

"Oh my god," Grantaire whines, hiding his face in his hands. "This may come as a shock to you but money makes the football world go round. This may also come as a shock to you, naive little chicken that you are, but FIFA is ran by a bunch overprivileged, overpaid assholes who care about nothing but the money in their bank accounts and -"

"Children - " Courfeyrac says, interrupting Grantaire's rant. More's the pity, Grantaire is ever so good at ranting about FIFA.

"I am not naive," Enjolras snarls indignantly at Grantaire, ignoring Courfeyrac. "Do you honestly think I don't know that? Do you honestly believe I am completely incapable of critical thought and -"

"Children -" Courfeyrac says again, a little more forcefully this time.

"Look," Grantaire says, ignoring Courfeyrac as well. "FIFA is corrupt to the core, I mean - "

"Children!" Courfeyrac practically shouts.

"What?" Enjolras asks.

"Oh, nothing important," Courfeyrac replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But while you were busy flirting with each other, Sweden managed to score a goal."

"What?" Grantaire and Enjolras gasp at the same time.

Courfeyrac stares meaningfully at the pitch, where the Swedish are still celebrating and Grantaire has to suppress a shudder when he chances a glance at the giant screens showing goal repetitions. He wonders if the French team even practice free kicks defense or if they just have a weekly party where they sink down to their knees and pray for the ball to hit the post?

"Fuck," Enjolras breathes beside Grantaire and he's inclined to agree.

How in Hell Enjolras and Grantaire managed not to notice the stadium's reaction to the goal is completely beyond Grantaire.

"Can we even afford to lose this game?" Courfeyrac asks in a very small voice, dreading the answer.

Grantaire does some quick calculations in his head. "Mathematically? Yes. Realistically? I'd recommend buying your return plane tickets as fast as you can so you may get a cheaper price."

"Peru won earlier today, though. So - " Enjolras says.

"So if you lose this game, you have to really, really hope Peru can beat Sweden in the last match and that France can somehow score at least two goals against Australia. And that, of course, is assuming that you don't suffer any more goals today, but there is still forty minutes to go, so I personally wouldn't hold my breath."

"Australia isn't that hard to beat, objectively, but - " Courfeyrac says thoughtfully.

"But you do have a terrible coach," Grantaire finishes for him. "And Australia did beat Sweden last Monday. Not that Sweden are being that impressive today, mind you. Just impressive enough to beat you."

"To beat us, or are you not French anymore?" Enjolras snaps at him.

Grantaire, very maturely, sticks out his tongue at him.

"We have to do something about Javert," Enjolras says, rolling his eyes at Grantaire's tongue. "This can't go on. He's been awful to the team, this iscompletely - "

"This is completely not the place to have this conversation, Enjolras," Grantaire interrupts. "Have you forgotten again where you are?"

Enjolras doesn't look pleased at being told to shut up but he nods. "We'll talk later," he says meaningfully to Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac nods, for once with a serious face, before grinning mischievously and bringing back up the old conversation. "So, about that cake...?" He asks.

"Oh, please, Enjolras, let us eat cake." Grantaire says, batting his eyelashes.

Enjolras narrows his eyes furiously at him. "Was that a Marie Antoinette reference?"

Courfeyrac visibly cringes. "Don't get him started on the monarchy, ever."

"I just don't see how - " Enjolras says but Combeferre is viciously tackled down on the pitch and he immediately shuts up.

Without thinking, Grantaire puts a calming hand on his arm. Enjolras doesn't remove it. Yet again, Courfeyrac is completely silent.

When Combeferre is back on his feet and Enjolras has stopped muttering under his breath about red cards, Courfeyrac speaks again.

"Ignoring really misguided monarchy references," he says, winking at Grantaire, "you are going to have cake with him tomorrow. You like cake. Everyone likes cake. And you need to relax."

"We can do it after the competition," Enjolras says stubbornly.

"No, you can't. You always just stretch yourself thin trying to do everything at once and one day you're just going to collapse and then you're not going to be of any use to anyone, let alone the team. If you need to believe that you are relaxing for the good of the team, then so be it. But youare doing it. Besides, a day off is by definition a day where you do things that aren't related to what you normally do."

"You know we're probably going to end up watching some matches, right?" Grantaire asks.

Courfeyrac shrugs. "That's fine. What I meant is that a day off is supposed to be a day where you, you know, relax, and not a day where you take advantage of having the field all to yourself to practice your free kicks and try to glare goalposts into submission. You aren't going to get out of this by saying 'France Before Pants', Enjolras.'"

Grantaire winces in sympathy. "Does he do that? The glaring at goalposts, not the 'France Before Pants' bit."

"No, I don't." Enjolras tries to say, but Courfeyrac ignores him.

"Yes, he does. All the time. It's a very Maome sort of thing, I think. Like, if the ball doesn't go inside the goalposts, then he will glare at the goalposts until they get out of the way?"

"Watch the damned match," Enjolras says, looking up at the sky - probably searching for divine patience.

After ten particularly boring minutes, where Sweden has settled back to defend their lead and the French apparently show no initiative to attack, Grantaire can't resist pulling on Enjolras' pigtails again. "Okay, seriously, what is the goal here? To show to the world that you - I'm sorry, that weare French and therefore don't need no fucking attack? We laugh in the face of teams that attack. And then we cry. But mostly we laugh."

Objectively, Grantaire can see the problem. France's attitude has been to lay back and defend while Sweden attack and then try to fight back with their pathetic attempts at a vicious counterattack. It isn't working because Sweden is, apparently, very happy to be defending, and the French team looks completely lost out on the field.

Courfeyrac sighs in sympathy, "I think Javert's theory here is that France is a strong defensive team that doesn't need no goals."

Enjolras appears to agree, "He has always subscribed to the theory that defense is the very best form of attack."

"Just as well that you choose not to be down there, really."

"Oh, fuck you," Enjolras says, throwing him a filthy look, "That wasn't my fault - "

"Of course it wasn't. You still should probably consider anger management classes - "

"I'm not fucking angry!" Enjolras snaps and Grantaire can see a drop of blood where Courfeyrac bites his lower lip to stop himself from laughing.

"Yes, you are. That's why you got a red card, you know. It's the card for angry men!" Grantaire says conspiratorially to Courfeyrac, leaning across Enjolras.

"Please shut up," Enjolras says and Courfeyrac hides his face in his hands, dissolving into helpless laughter.

As the game goes on and on, and the French still show no attacking initiative, Grantaire starts mentally composing the article he's supposed to write once he gets back to his hotel and, for once, Enjolras is the one to interrupt his train of thought, rather than the other way around.

"Don't you have an article to write or something?" He asks, and Grantaire has to resist the urge to kick him.

"Don't you have a motivational speech to prepare for when this mess is over?" Grantaire drawls.

"Oh, fuck you - " Enjolras growls.

"He has nothing to worry about," Courfeyrac says with an easy grin. "We just have to listen to my motivational mixtape. And don't look at me like that, Enjolras, you really could do with listening to The Climb, to be honest. It's a very motivational song. Miles better than what you pick when it's your turn to pick the music on the team bus."

Grantaire won't ask.

He won't.

He does. "What does he pick?"

"Rage Against The Machine," Courfeyrac says, with a disgusted look on his face.

"There's nothing wrong with - "

"Nice," Grantaire says approvingly. "Didn't have you down for that kind of music. Still, perhaps using a band whose most famous verse consists of 'fuck you, I won't do what you told me" as motivation, isn't the best of ideas?" Grantaire considers this further. "You've always had a problem with authority figures, haven't you?"

"There's always other options," Courfeyrac laughs. "I'm also rather partial to Adele."

"I set fire to Javert, watched him burn as I kicked his face?" Grantaire sings and he can't avoid the smile stretching on his face when Enjolras actually chuckles at this.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes but says nothing.

As the clock ticks on, Grantaire can feel the sense of foreboding settling down on the stands amongst the fans and he can't help but feel sorry for everyone who spent money on the ticket, even though this was exactly what he was expecting to happen.

Three minutes before the end of the match, Courfeyrac feels the need to break the eerie silence by shouting, "Oh, fuck this, I'm becoming a stripper."

Everyone within hearing distance turns to stare at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac waggles his eyebrows lecherously back at them.

"Well, we know what will be on the cover of every newspaper in France tomorrow," Enjolras says sarcastically, "France's performance so bad that star player considers career as a stripper."

"Damn, that is good," Grantaire says thoughtfully, and quickly types it into his cell phone. "I may actually use that tomorrow. Thanks, Enjolras."

"What?" Enjolras sputters indignantly at him.

"That was a joke," Courfeyrac says. "Unlike me becoming a stripper - I think that may actually be a very valid career choice. I mean, I have the perfect legs for it, if I do say so myself."

Enjolras groans, hiding his face in his hands. "You are not becoming a stripper. And you are also not going to talk about becoming a stripper again - that is not a mental image that I need, Courfeyrac. "

"You know," Grantaire says slowly. "This is the most boring, pathetic thing I've had the displeasure to watch in a very, very long time. And Cosette once made me watch all four Twilight movies with her."

Courfeyrac shudders. "Yeah, I see your point - Pontmercy once forced me to watch them as well. It's probably for the best if we never introduce them to each other."

Grantaire feels very inclined to agree.

"It's almost over now, and then we can leave," Courfeyrac says, glancing at the clock on the giant screen.

He shakes his head. "That's just an illusion. You can never leave this game. You're here until you die."

"Well, that's dramatic," Enjolras says.

Grantaire shrugs.

As the ref blows his whistle and Enjolras goes completely still beside them, Grantaire has to resist the urge to tear his hair out. "Dishonor on the game, dishonor on France, dishonor on their fucking barricade," he says instead.

When Courfeyrac and Enjolras get up from their seats to join the rest of the team, Grantaire wonders what will happen when France inevitably lose their next match and they have to go home. Enjolras doesn't look the crying type, but then again, they never really do.

He quickly waves them off in their way (after Courfeyrac vigorously assures him that he will most definitely be seeing Enjolras the next day, even if Courfeyrac has to drag him there) and settles back down on his seat, waiting for the very depressed crowd to leave the stadium so he doesn't have to put up with any of them.

Minutes later, when the stadium is finally almost empty and Grantaire is just about to get up from his seat when a warm hand on his shoulder stops him. He isn't sure what he's expecting to find when he looks up at the person the hand belongs to, but a part of him can't help but hope it's Enjolras and that's something he really doesn't want to analyze on a deeper level. However, he is greeted by Courfeyrac's gently smiling face.

"Can I sit?" he asks, gesturing to the seat besides Grantaire.

"Shouldn't you be down with the rest of the team?" Grantaire replies, as Courfeyrac shrugs and sits down besides him.

"I told Enjolras I forgot my wallet," he pauses and then adds, "I think we need to talk."

And oh, Grantaire hates hearing those four words, everyone hates hearing those four words. It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing good can ever come out of those four words and whatever it is Courfeyrac wants, Grantaire is sure he is way too sober for it. Still, he really has no choice but to deal with it.

"Oh?" Grantaire asks as calmly as he can.

Courfeyrac seems to be considering his words very carefully, rather than saying the first thing that comes into his mind like he had during the match. Several seconds go by before he speaks. "You know, I think we have a lot in common -"

"Courfeyrac, you are really not my type -" Grantaire interrupts, even though he's quite sure that's not why Courfeyrac is there.

"Darling, you wish I was your type," Courfeyrac says with a wicked grin and the sight of it slightly calms the growing lump on Grantaire's throat. "I'm not hitting on you, relax. Though I do think you are very pretty," he says reassuringly. What I meant is, you don't really have a filter for anything that comes out of your mouth, do you?"

"What would be the point?" Grantaire asks. "Besides, deprive the world of my natural brilliance? I am really not that cruel."

Courfeyrac laughs. "No, I don't suppose you are. I don't really have a filter either." And Grantaire has to agree with that. "I probably should have one, all things considered, but I don't really like to have to think about the things I say or to pretend to be something I'm not. And I'm a good person. Or at least I like to think I am."

"If you're trying to get me to talk you out of killing Javert, I'm really not - "

"This isn't about Javert, this is about about...cake. This is about cake. And about you having... cake... with Enjolras," Courfeyrac whispers softly, even though there is no one in the seats around them.

Oh, fuck, Grantaire thinks.

"I like to trust people," Courfeyrac continues, in the same soft tone of voice.

"Yes, that's why you usually get in trouble with the press, Courfeyrac." Grantaire states.

And it's true. Enjolras still gets regularly in trouble, but he's mostly learnt when he has to shut up - probably a good thing because, judging by his earlier interviews, if he hadn't, he'd be allowed to play approximately a match a season. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, is an entirely different matter. He's not quite as... revolutionary as Enjolras, but saying he doesn't really have a filter is not an inaccurate description. Luckily for him, what he says get him with in more trouble with the press and the tabloids than with actual football authorities.

"Maybe," Courfeyrac shrugs. "Or maybe not. I'm aware that people are doing their jobs. I just can't be bothered to lie about how I feel about something. But that's not the point here. The point is that I do like to trust people. And I've found that most of the time, if you trust people, people will surprise you and be worthy of that trust."

"I have this friend I think I should introduce you to. I believe it's called common sense."

Something in what he says seems to reassure Courfeyrac, as he visibly relaxes besides Grantaire. "That's exactly it, isn't it? You're an asshole." And Grantaire never had anyone call him an asshole in such a delighted tone of voice.

"I am very confused right now, Courfeyrac."

"Right," Courfeyrac says, nodding to himself. "This is good. I think so, at least. Well. Look, I'm not good at these things so I'll keep it short and to the point - Enjolras wants to have cake with you," he says matter-of-factly, his voice soft and low, even though all seats around them are empty.

"Okay?" Grantaire says slowly.

"You are not stupid," Courfeyrac chides, "Don't act like it. You know what I mean. If it was up to me, Enjolras could have any sort of baked goods he wants. But..."

"But...?" Grantaire presses.

"But you're a member of the press."

And there aren't many things that truly offend Grantaire - the football game he just witnessed may actually make the list - but Courfeyrac somehow just managed to do it. "Do you honestly believe - "

"That you're a male member of the press? If you're not, you have the weirdest taste in shoes of any woman I've ever met," Courfeyrac says pointedly, rolling his eyes and Grantaire understands the problem completely. Despite everything that people like to believe, the world is still fundamentally a very shitty place. Even in the twenty-first century, football stadiums are still supposed to be Europe's last great beacons of sheer undiluted masculinity. In the end, Enjolras could shove his hands up any woman's skirt in public and, in a worst case-scenario, all he'd have to do is put out a semi-apologetic press statement and the world wouldn't bat an eye. If Enjolras were to as much as hold Grantaire's hand in public, it would probably be the end of his career. Welcome to 2018, Grantaire thinks sadly, everything has changed and yet everything is still the same.

"This conversation isn't about cake at all, is it?" He asks Courfeyrac.

"Maybe there is no cake. Maybe the cake is a lie. Who knows?" Courfeyrac asks, shrugging his shoulder. "That's not the point. The point is that if it were to make the headlines that Enjolras is... eating cake... well. It could be dangerous. And not just for the team."

"Look, if you want Enjolras not to - oh god - not to eat cake - "

"I'm sorry, was that what I said?" Courfeyrac says. "I don't think it was. I'm all for Enjolras having as much cake as he wants! Cake is awesome, cake makes people happy, all I want is for Enjolras to be happy. I mean, I'm a huge fan of cake myself - well, not cake cake. I personally prefer other types of baked goods but if cake makes Enjolras happy then that's what I want him to have. Although, I do have to say there's this delicious triple-layer chocolate cake with strawberry filling in this tiny place in Paris - "

Grantaire frowns at this. "I'm very confused at the turn this conversation is taking."

Courfeyrac frowns at himself. "Yeah, I kind of got lost on my own metaphor. Got distracted by actual cake - that does happen a lot. But no, look - I think cake can be just what Enjolras needs. However, some people will probably not be pleased. And it's not - it's not fair, he really should have any cake he wants - except for that delicious triple-layer cake, of course, which I will not share with anyone - but that's something Enjolras shouldn't have to deal with right now. Not the eating the cake part, just the part where people aren't happy about him having cake. You know?"

Grantaire does know. And he should shut up, he should shut up and let it rest but he can't, so he finds himself making word noises again. "I'm not - I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know what we are doing. He is the most infuriating - I mean, one minute he's glaring at me and the other he's - " he stops himself, because Courfeyrac is still Enjolras' friend and losing his shit in front of him is probably not a good idea. He picks his next words very carefully. "Look - I can't promise you no one's going to get hurt - or eat too much cake and get awful diabetes and die, if you will - because I really don't even know what the fuck this. But I'm not - I'm not a shitty person. And I'm not in this for the story." He can't keep the disgust out of his voice.

"You're an asshole." Courfeyrac repeats, and it's the statement of a simple fact, rather than an insult. "If this really was an act, you'd be nice. You're really not." Courfeyrac pauses to gather his thoughts. "If I thought you were in it for the story, we wouldn't be having this conversation in the first place. I think you're probably a decent person, on the whole. You're a bit too obsessed with chickens, but we all have our kinks." He pats Grantaire's shoulder reassuringly. "I'm usually a good judge of character. And you're really too much of an asshole for this to be an act. So I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt and I really need you to prove me right."

"And if you're wrong?"

"Look," Courfeyrac says, soft and tentative and with no hint of the usual mischief in his voice, "it's really none of my business and Enjolras would kill me if he as much as dreamt this conversation was happening. But - don't be an ass? He doesn't really - that is to say - look, just. Don't be an ass. Please. That's all. Keep it nice and easy. And, for the love of God, be careful. I trust you to keep you to keep this out of the papers of your own free will but I still don't trust the people in charge of those newspapers. Please, be careful."

"Are you really quite sure you're not reading too much into this? I'm not even sure Enjolras likes me."

"No? Then perhaps you could explain to me why for the first since I've known him he actually spent more time fixing his hair in the bathroom than me?"

"His hair looks the same as ever!"

"Yeah, well. Five minutes on the bus ride and he was already trying to tear it out to keep himself from shouting at Javert. Literally. Still, it's the thought that counts," Courfeyrac finishes with a smile and Grantaire really appreciates Courfeyrac's honesty.

Then he realizes what Courfeyrac's said. "Enjolras can actually shout at Javert? That's nice, I didn't know he was fluent in pathetic loser."

Courfeyrac bursts out laughing at this and Grantaire feels a part of the weight he's been feeling since this conversation started lifting from his shoulder. "You know, I think your awful cake may be just what Enjolras needs."

Grantaire can't help but laugh. "I order my cake. Not the metaphorical cake but the actual cake. Please don't tell Enjolras that."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Courfeyrac says with a smile.

"I still think you're misreading Enjolras here." Grantaire really doesn't know when to shut up.

"I'm really not. You haven't watched many League 1 matches, have you?"

"No, I just go online and read what people write about it." He answers sarcastically. "Of course, I've watched League 1 matches, do you think I just insult you all without knowing what I'm talking about?"

"And you've never noticed what happens when Enjolras doesn't get to start a game?" Courfeyrac says, raising an eyebrow.

It's impossible not to pay attention to Enjolras when he's on or off the pitch - even Grantaire's predisposition to dickishness had allowed him to to realize just how hot the blonde was before even meeting him. Still, he doesn't understand what Courfeyrac is getting at. "Is there a point to this or - "

"He looks like a child on a sugar high, he never sits down ever, he shouts and screams, he tears his hair out, he pretty much has to be kept in manacles in order not to jump inside the pitch. And this is of course for times he has to sit on the bench, because you can bet your pretty ass in leather pants that if he's not called he won't be watching the game in the stands. He'll be downstairs, trying to make his way into the locker rooms."

"That's not really like legal," Grantaire says.

"Oh yes, that ought to stop him, I'm sure." Courfeyrac checks his watch and gets up from the seat. "I really should get going. I hope this conversation does its intended work."

"Yeah," Grantaire says. "By the way, I have to ask - do you always flirt with... well, people who offer to give your teammates cake?"

"Yes. I blame Combeferre. He told me I could be anything. I became John Terry."

Grantaire really likes Courfeyrac.


	6. Chapter 6

When Grantaire wakes up the next morning, the news about Javert being off the team is all over the internet. He doesn't even bother getting up from the bed before calling Cosette, who thankfully picks up on the first ring.

"Now," she says immediately. "Before you decide to kill me, I just want to remind you that when you're in France I'm the person who usually gets you coffee in the morning."

"What the fuck? Why would I want to kill you?" He grumbles into the phone, before waving his hand dismissively, even though he knows she can't see it. "Wait, nevermind that now. What the fuck is going on with this team? Are they trying to actually out drama every single French team in the history of time? Because five minutes ago I would have said that it's a losing battle as they're up against some very strong contenders but I just don't know anymore. I mean, if they can keep this up, they may actually have a real shot at it."

"And a good morning to you too, sweetheart," Cosette interrupts sweetly, but Grantaire can hear an edge of relief in her voice. "Or at least that's what I'd say if it wasn't 3PM. What time did you even go to bed last night?"

"I don't have to answer any of your questions, you're not my real mom," Grantaire cheerfully informs her.

"Oh, goodie," Cosette sighs tiredly. "Were you up all night trolling Uruguayan fans again just because they didn't qualify for the World Cup? Because I keep telling you, it's just not nice to make fun of them. It's not their fault Suarez decided to bite the referee in the play-off match."

"Which football fans I do or do not troll on my free time is my own problem." And maybe Grantaire _was _up late last night but, in his defense, he was freaking about Enjolras and what he should or shouldn't do about the blond. It's really not his fault that annoying people helps him relax or that football fans in internet forums are particularly quick to anger and therefore extremely easy targets.

"Of course it is," Cosette says. "Look, do you actually have any idea what happened with Javert or - "

"Cosette," Grantaire interrupts. "I _literally _just woke up. All I did was turn on my laptop. I'm not even wearing any pants yet. I called you to see if _you _knew what was going on. On or off the record, I don't even care anymore."

There is a thoughtful pause as Cosette seems to consider what to tell him. "Not much." A short pause. "There were... issues. Everyone knows there were issues, that isn't really news. Javert's relationship with the players was strained, just like it had always been. But there was a huge fight with the entire team last night. Papa won't tell me what it was about and he didn't say anything about what's going to happen now. But whatever it was, it was bad."

"Papa?" Grantaire asks blankly.

He can hear Cosette scoffing from the other end of the line. "Papa. As in my father. As in Jean Valjean. As in Javert's assistant coach. Honestly, do you ever listen when other people talk to you?"

"Hey," he says defensively. "I don't work well until I've half-drowned myself in coffee. We've established that. We've accepted that. We've learnt to embrace that as another quirky personality trait of mine. Just like we've embraced my inability to say no to you when you want to try to braid my hair, even though it is definitely too short for that. By the way, you are the worst intern _ever_. Now, if you have no more juicy gossip to share, I'm going to hang up and go find myself some delicious coffee and then I'm going to have to go hunt down the best damn cake Russia has to offer."

"Cake?" Cosette asks inquisitively. "Why do you want cake? Are you going to try to bake again? Please don't do it, Grantaire. You are too young to die."

"Ahah," Grantaire deadpans. "You are _hilarious_. And I don't know why I'd go out to _buy _cake if what I wanted was to _bake _cake. And honestly - you explode a kitchen one or two times and all of a sudden it becomes this thing and you're not allowed anywhere near ovens anymore. Where is the trust, Cosette? Where is the trust?"

"It died," Cosette replies darkly. "Along with my microwave. Which you still haven't paid for, by the way. You are the worst mentor _ever_."

"I love you too, sweetheart," he says pleasantly. "But fine, I do solemnly swear that I am up to no cooking. At least not today. I have a thing. A thing that requires cake. So, if you'll excuse me - "

"What kind of thing requires cake?" Cosette asks and Grantaire supposes that's a fair enough question.

"The sort of thing that - " A knock on the door interrupts his train of thought. "Aw," he says as he gets up from the bed and walks towards the door. "Do you know, I think my coffee godmother has come to visit me - "

His words die in his throat as he opens the door to find himself face to face with Enjolras.

"Cosette, I'm going to have to call you back." He hangs up the phone. "You know, I never wake up to anything this nice," Grantaire tells Enjolras as a greeting, his eyes raking over the blond.

"I need your help," Enjolras says at once, but then he takes in Grantaire's appearance and his mouth hangs open. Enjolras' eyes eyes travel slowly over Grantaire's body, from his hair (which is very messy), to his chest (which is very naked) and to his groin (which is only covered by a pair of bright orange boxer briefs), all the way down to his feet (which are bare). He gulps audibly and pointedly looks away, but Grantaire doesn't miss the faint flush coloring his cheeks. He's about to open his mouth to say something impertinent, when Enjolras speaks again. "You're not wearing any pants. Or a shirt," he accuses, because apparently he really likes stating the obvious. "I suppose I should be glad that you're at least wearing underwear to open the door and therefore making _some _effort in not getting arrested for indecent exposure."

"Does my semi-naked body distress you?" Grantaire asks, smiling beatifically at Enjolras, who is still refusing to meet his eyes.

Enjolras' only response is to let out a long-suffering sigh and swiftly push his way into the room, looking anywhere but at Grantaire. "Please put some clothes on," he asks. "I really do need your help. And for you to wear pants."

"Are we killing Javert today? Is that why I need pants?" Grantaire asks, delight clear in his voice as he closes the door behind him and walks around Enjolras to pick some clothes from the pile on top of the couch. "Wait, but why can't I kill him in my underwear?"

"What? No! Look - Right," Enjolras says firmly "Did you just roll out of bed?"

"It's possible I may have slept slightly late today." Grantaire admits, quickly putting on a pair of jeans. He grabs the first t-shirt he can find. It's completely white and frightfully non-offensive and now he'll need to go even more out of his way to properly annoy Enjolras. Again. Good thing annoying him is fun. "But in my defense, you're very early for our cake thing."

"I tried calling you," Enjolras says defensively. "You wouldn't pick up your phone."

"I was asleep," Grantaire points out, pulling the shirt over his head. "Right, everything strictly PG over here - you can look at me again."

"Is this normal, to have your clothes lying around on top of the couch?" Enjolras asks, judgment clear in his voice as he stares back at Grantaire. "And why aren't you staying with the rest of the French press, anyway?"

"Have you tried hanging out with the French press for extended periods of time?" Grantaire asks with disgust, but he moves the pile of clothes from the small couch over to the top of the bed, sinking down beside it. "They're the most pretentious, egotistical, pompous, stuck-up, self-important arrogant assholes you'll ever meet."

"I suppose it takes one to know one," Enjolras replies sarcastically.

"You know, Enjolras, when you decide to retire from football, you should try to look into a career in stand-up comedy. I know it's a bit unconventional for a football player, but I'm sure you'd find a way to make it work. You look like a resourceful kind of person." At Enjolras' eyeroll, he adds, "No, but seriously - completely unbearable. I don't know how anyone can put with any of them for more than five minutes."

"Well," Enjolras says, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. "You have been putting up with yourself for... what? Thirty years now?"

"Oh, fuck you, asshole," Grantaire snaps, giving him a dirty look. "I'm twenty-nine."

"Yes, but how does that translate to asshole years?" Enjolras asks quizzically.

"Oh, shut up," Grantaire says pleasantly. "You may take the couch, my liege."

Enjolras' lips curl in distaste at this, but he obediently sits down, not commenting on Grantaire's choice of nicknames.

"Now, what can I do you for?" Grantaire asks, making an effort to put as much innuendo in his voice as he possibly can.

"Didn't you read the newspapers this morning?" Enjolras enquires.

"Well, I suppose you _were _going to have to find out anyway," Grantaire declares gravely. "I'm not really a journalist. You see, I'm secretly a princess from a faraway land. I was sent to this foreign land by my fairy godmother to find my one true love. And maybe discover how to make popcorn. She does so like her popcorn. And then I figured disguising myself as a football journalist seemed like the best choice at the time. Although, granted, had I known then what I know now, I'd probably have dressed as a milkmaid. Less chance of getting punched in the face by overbearing, self-righteous, patronizing Enjolrases. Though I suppose I could get kicked in the face by a cow, which is by no means a positive life experience, of course, but - "

"Can't you be serious for five fucking minutes?" Enjolras asks.

"Yes, I fucking read the newspapers this morning," Grantaire snaps. "What the fuck do you think I do when I'm not with you, sit around all day staring at the mirror and curling my long fairytale princess hair while my an army of birds and mice cooks me lunch and dresses me in the finest silks the world has to offer?"

"See, I kind of want to say yes just to see where you're going with this but I have the feeling I'd be stuck in this room until the end of the tournament listening to you prattle on about long lost princesses and silk dresses," Enjolras says, looking like he wants to knock his head against the wall. Or maybe Grantaire's head. Possibly both of their heads. It's hard to tell.

"Is this what the help thing is about? Do you want my help to find a fairy godmother, who will turn your ragged football kit into a beautiful pink princess dress so you can go to a dance and meet a talented coach who will save you from a lifetime of terrible tactical choices? I can help, of course, but it's important that you accept that playing football in a long dress may actually be quite complicated and counter-productive to your goals. And, obviously, I just don't know how well crystal cleats will work on a pitch, so we're going to have to - "

"That's why I need your help," Enjolras cuts in, just when Grantaire's about to get to the good part of his rant. "Disney movies aside - How much do you know about Javert leaving?"

Grantaire shrugs. "Javert's off the team. You're not saying why yet and no one's leaked anything to the press so we're not quite sure what the reasons are, exactly. But the main theory seems to be that he quit, though if you ask me - "

"That's not incorrect assessment of the situation. Long story short, we refused to train until he left. The Football Federation could either go along with it and get him to leave or they could deal with another repeat of what happened in 2010." Enjolras offers carelessly, like this is perfectly normal behaviour for a football team. "They took the easy way out."

"And Javert went along with that?" Grantaire asks, disbelief clear in his voice.

"He didn't really have a choice," Enjolras shrugs. "The Federation was very clear about what was going to happen. I think they just don't want to deal with the drama shitstorm, but it all worked out in the end."

"It all worked out in the end? _It all worked out in the end_?" Grantaire echoes sarcastically. "Are you insane? Even if you try to spin this as a good thing, you will be hounded by the press. There is nothing we love more than a good drama. Enjolras, this will be a _mess _-"

"We know that," Enjolras says. "The Federation's going to say Javert quit due to health reasons. Courfeyrac has been trying to sell a chicken pox idea to anyone who will listen."

"And you think Javert is going to agree to that?"

"He's not - " Enjolras bites his lip thoughtfully. "I never liked him and I still don't. There were too many pointless arguments and discussions about things that are not football related. And you know how I feel about him as far as football is concerned. But he meant well. To the best of his abilities, he meant well. He's not going to go out on a scorched earth bang. Maybe when this is over he'll talk to the press, but it won't be an issue for now. He won't talk, not while it can negatively affect the team."

"Still, the Federation - " Grantaire starts.

"The Federation would rather have a coach who had to leave with chicken pox than a coach kicked out by his own team. 2010 was bad enough, no one wanted to go through that again."

"In 2010 players were punished for those actions," Grantaire points out. "And now you act like spoiled children and get what you want?"

"It's possible we will be punished as well. But you know how it is," Enjolras says and it's clear how little he cares. "They won't do anything until the competition is done and even once it is, worst case scenario is that we'll be forced to miss a couple of friendlies. They can't risk official matches because then chances are France will lose endangering future qualifications and the people will not be pleased about that. And even if that wasn't an issue, they still wouldn't want the media storm that's bound to happen if they get their hands on the true reason he left. The Federation will probably just end up shoving this under the rug if they can and nothing will happen just so they don't have to deal with this in the press."

Grantaire doesn't miss Enjolras' interesting choice of nouns. _They_. Not _you_, _they_.

"Okay," Grantaire says slowly, looking at Enjolras questioningly. "Is this why you're here? Do you want me to plant the chicken pox rumour? Because I don't usually deal with shit like this, Enjolras. This mess really isn't what I do. I could _maybe _call someone for you who could be persuaded into helping you idiots out, but the Federation is probably already bullying everyone they can think of to put a positive spin on the story, so - "

"No, that's not it." Enjolras gives his face a searching look and he must find whatever it is he is looking for, because when he speaks again his voice is strong and sure. "Okay. Grantaire, if you had to coach in our next match, what would you do?"

Grantaire blinks. "Is this a trick question?"

"Just answer the question, please," Enjolras asks quietly.

"First, I would spank you all until you decided to stop on this kicking long balls up at Marius bullshit. It just doesn't work, it's like throwing french fries into your bathtub and hoping they magically turn into pizza. And in the end you've ruined your fries and you get no pizza out of it and you also have to clean your bathtub. Or you have to smell like a french fry, if you decide to take a bath in it, I guess. Though I have no idea why you would."

"Can you please, _please, _be serious?" Enjolras asks looking at the ceiling, probably in search of some patience.

"I was," Grantaire says, leaning back against the clothes and putting his feet up on the bed. "Kicking long balls up at Marius will achieve nothing. Kid couldn't get past a traffic cone on horse tranquilizers with a ball on his feet if his life depended on it and we both know it."

"Grantaire, either -"

"Fine," Grantaire says and his voice turns matter-of-fact and emotionless. "You have to score at least two goals in that match. So first, you have to stop with this over the top, barricade-building, defensive bullshit. That's a small team's tactics and individually you are far too good to just lay back and defend. I know, I know, " he waves hand dismissively. "It's a high risk to take because you can't afford to concede any goals but you're not going to score any if you put eleven players in front of the ball, Enjolras. And you _have _to score. It's a risk worth taking, though mostly it's because you have no other choice. And at least this way watching you play wouldn't make me want to throw myself out of the nearest window - and look out the window, this is a second floor room, I probably won't even die but I'd break some bones and I'd be in pain both from the fall and from having to watch you play."

"Grantaire -" Enjolras warns.

"Right." Grantaire says. "Look. You play as fast as possible, you use a defensive line that's high on the field - take some advantage of the fucking offside trap - and you keep tight lines between your defense and your attack. You press as if your life depended on it - because as far as football is concerned it _does _- and instead of sitting back and trying to prevent the Australians from scoring while they attack and you wait for them to come to you, you go straight to the root of the problem. You win the ball back on their half and you stop them from attacking altogether by not giving them time or space to construct offensive plays." Here, he pauses for breath. "And you don't need a double pivot - Combeferre is an excellent "six", just have him play right in front of your defensive line and no one else. And then have your fullbacks spread along the field and - again - have your centre-backs push as high as possible. And for the love of God work on set pieces. Yours are painful to watch. No one's expecting you to score from set pieces. Or to properly defend them. This way, they will be expecting the French Revolution and you will give them the Spanish Inquisition."

"I worry about your pop culture references sometimes," Enjolras says.

"All part of the plan, really," Grantaire says pleasantly. "After all, no one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition."

"Right," Enjolras says. "So you understand why we need your help."

"We? _We_?" Grantaire echoes. "What the fuck are you on about?"

Enjolras takes a deep breath and laces his fingers together. "Still off the record, Valjean is going to get the job. And he's very good with the team and we all like him very much but he doesn't really have any experience with tactics or formations or - "

"Wait - Just what the fuck are you asking me, exactly?" Grantaire asks, his voice rising with every syllable.

"He doesn't really have any experience with tactics or formations," Enjolras repeats, before looking Grantaire straight in the eye. "You do."

There's a pause. Then Grantaire finds himself laughing so hard he falls off the bed.

"Are you _high_? Is this the new strategy now, to get players high before the matches? Are you drunk? Wait, or why did you fall on your head? Should I check for lumps?" He asks, between chuckles.

"I'm not joking," Enjolras says sternly. "For all the unnecessary commentary you provide in your articles, your match analysis as your match previews are spot on. Everyone always says so. You said it yourself the first time we meet - you're not usually wrong about football. You almost always get the results high and I _know _you have a UEFA Pro coaching license - "

"What the fuck?" Grantaire yelps from the floor. "Have you been stalking me?"

"It's not stalking if all I did was google you," Enjolras says defensively.

"Okay, leaving aside the fact that that license is only theoretical and I've only gotten to better bitch at people and, in fact, I have never been anywhere near a football team, why the fuck don't you just get someone who has experience with this shit? Like, I don't know, someone who's actually managed a team before?"

"Because there is no one else," Enjolras says, like the dramatic asshole he is.

Grantaire scoffs. "In the whole wide world, there isn't one football coach who fits your patriotic standards?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "We're mid-tournament, Grantaire," he says impatiently. "Even if all the good coaches weren't already working for other teams or other clubs, we're _mid-tournament_. There's no time to prepare anything, you just jump right and try to get shit done. No one we could ever get would even remotely know enough about the team. There just isn't enough time to get anyone else. We play again in four days."

"What? And you think _I_ know the team?" Grantaire asks, still from the floor.

"I think you have been writing about us for a very long time and you are _excellent _at what you do. Courfeyrac likes you, which means that the team will like and you do come very highly recommended," he confines.

"What the fuck?" Grantaire snaps.

"Valjean's daughter - Cosette, is it? - she says you know more about football than anyone she's ever met. And Valjean really trusts her judgement, so he's all on board with the idea. And had read your articles - though he had to ignore about half of every single one because you really are a complete asshole when you try - and he thought they were brilliant. The bits not about chicken, of course. "

"Right, look - "

"No, listen." Enjolras interrupts. "We're not asking you to train the team or to take responsability about anything. But you know a lot about football and you are excellent at tearing teams apart. That's all we want you to do. Just come in, have a chat with Valjean about tactics. Tell us what's wrong with ours, tell us how to fix it and tell us what the other team will probably do and what's wrong with it. That's all I'm asking."

"What about my journalistic integrity?" Grantaire enquires.

"Do you have any?" Enjolras asks with a raised eyebrow and Grantaire has to admit he has a point.

"So, what the fuck am I supposed to be? Some sort of consulting Guardiola?" Grantaire asks sarcastically.

"That's also not an incorrect assessment of the situation," Enjolras says, just like before.

"Yeah - no. _No_. _Hell_, no. You're pretty but I am _not _shaving my head or putting on a sweater vest for you. Some of us have fashion standards. Now, if you want me to, I can _maybe _wear a french maid outfit for you, but - "

"I believe that will not be required," Enjolras says primly, a faint blush on his cheeks. "And you can wear whatever clothes you desire."

"Assuming this works out - you're telling me what _you _get out of this. What do _I_ get out of it ?" Grantaire asks, smirking lazily up at Enjolras.

Enjolras opens his mouth to reply but Grantaire waves a hand to stop him before he can speak. "One self-righteous answer about doing it for honour and country or whatever it is you prattle on about when I'm only pretending to listen and I swear to God I'm kicking you out of my room," Grantaire says.

"I could pay you?" Enjolras suggests in a small voice.

"I'm sure you could," Grantaire says, giving Enjolras a look that could only be described as predatory. Enjolras' ears go delightfully pink.

"I meant - " Enjolras takes a deep breath and looks like he has to try very hard to sound scandalized. "I _meant _money."

"What?" Grantaire chuckles. "You think you can, like, offer me 200 euros for my time and attention and I'll drop everything because you batted your eyelashes at me? I'm not _that _cheap."

"What do you want?" Enjolras asks through gritted teeth.

"You let me campaign for you as the 2018 Ballon D'Or winner." Before Enjolras can interrupt, Grantaire adds, "Without bitching about it."

Enjolras narrows his eyes at him. "Why would you do that?"

Grantaire shrugs. "Partially because I think you deserve it. But mostly because I know it'll really, really piss you off."

"Are you really fucking serious right now?"

"No, Lupin is." Grantaire smirks, rising up from the floor and sitting down on the bed again.

"What?" Enjolras asks.

"You know, you're really very pretty but I don't know if I can be friends with a man who doesn't get Harry Potter references."

"I don't want to be your friend," Enjolras says.

Grantaire immediately feels as if he's been slapped. "Right, then," he says in an even tone. "This has been a very enlightening evening, thank you very much for - "

"No," Enjolras snaps, sounding frustrated. "That's not - I don't want to _just _be your friend. But I don't know what I'm supposed to want or allowed to want. But I- " Enjolras pauses, takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his already very messy hair. "I _like _you. But I really don't know how to do this. I don't know how to do any of this. But I do. Like you. And I need to figure out some things and I know this whole thing is a mess but -"

"You don't know me," Grantaire reminds him.

"I want to," Enjolras shrugs.

Grantaire can't ignore the feeling of suspicion that's been spreading through him ever since Enjolras walked through the door. "Are you just doing this because you want my help?" He asks.

"Who the fuck do you think I am?" Enjolras shouts indignantly and he's on his feet before Grantaire even has time to process what's happening.. "Do you think I would ever do anything like that, do you think me so inconsiderate that I would play with anyone's feelings like that or that I would prostitute myself - "

"Well, you do have to admit - "

"What?" Enjolras snaps. "What the fuck do I have to admit? You can say yes or you say no. It's your call. I know it's a pretty big favor and you don't have to do it. And whether or not you accept to do it doesn't change anything. You can say no and it's fine and you can say yes and it's fine as well. But I would really like it if you said yes. God knows we could use all the help we can get."

"You're very zen about this whole thing," Grantaire points out, trying to move them back to a safer topic of conversation.

"Well, that happens when Courfeyrac locks himself in a room with you and tries to give you dating advice," Enjolras says pulling a face.

"Oh god, that's terrifying. And you really shouldn't take relationship advice from Courfeyrac. I'm quite sure his longest relationship is with his Gucci dealer. Or maybe with his self-tanner dealer," Grantaire chuckles.

"Well, at least you're amusing yourself. I was the one who had to sit there and watch him do a Powerpoint presentation about quote-unquote proper dating etiquette."

"Couldn't you just have wrestled him for the key?" Grantaire asks.

"He threatened to swallow it if I got within five feet of him. And then he tried to guilt trip me by saying he had watched gay porn for me," Enjolras says, shaking his head.

"Courfeyrac definitely has too much free time."

"Yes," Enjolras says. He checks his watch. "I really should be with the rest of the team. I'm sorry about our plans," he says, and for what it's worth he does sound sorry. "Maybe in our next free day? Or free days, considering our next match will probably be our last."

He sounds defeated. And young and vulnerable. Like someone stole his puppy. Grantaire absolutely hates it.

"Enjolras," he says quietly. "Give me one good reason why I should do this. Please. Just one good reason and I'll do it."

"There isn't one," Enjolras says. "But I really wish you would." A beat. "_Please_."

In the end, that's all it takes.

"Fine," Grantaire concedes. "_Fine_, I'll do it. But if Courfeyrac says one word about gay porn to me I am out of there."

"Deal," Enjolras says and smiles, broad and unguarded, and Grantaire thinks there's nothing he wouldn't to keep that smile on Enjolras' face.

"I really should go," Enjolras says with regret. His hand grazes Grantaire's should as he walks towards the door and Grantaire turns to watch him go. "Valjean will call you. Speaking of which - I think you're getting a roommate."

"Dude, I am _not _moving in with Cosette's dad for you."

"Whoever told you you were funny did the world a disservice," Enjolras says. "I meant Valjean's daughter. She's flying up to Russia. She said that if her father is going to be the main coach then she wants to be here."

"Oh god, what did I ever do to the world?" Grantaire complains. "She'll drink all my alcohol, hide all my coffee and try to talk me into being _polite_."

Enjolras snorts and opens the door.

"By the way," Enjolras says, turning back to stare at Grantaire's over his shoulder one last time. "Remus Lupin. Sirius Black. Prisoner of Azkaban. For the record, I did understand that reference."

"You - you," Grantaire stutters. "You filthy, filthy liar. I _trusted _you. How could you do this to me?"

"You're cute when you think you're being witty and other people aren't getting it," Enjolras says with a shrug.

"Wait," Grantaire says, his voice lowering with suspicion. "Does this mean you understood the rest of my pop culture references? I feel like my entire life is a lie."

"You may never know it," Enjolras says smugly.

"You _absolute _asshole," Grantaire whines, falling face down into the bed, making half of the pile of clothes collapse on top of him. "I'll be questioning every single conversation I've ever had with you now."

"Good. It can't hurt to keep you on your toes," Enjolras says, with a smug grin on his face. "It's about time you learnt that I'm a man of many layers."

"Yes," Grantaire agrees, without looking at him. "Just like an onion, you are. You know, this could be your stage name for when you take your stand-up show on the road. It has a nice ring to it and all. _Onionjolras_."

"You are such an idiot," Enjolras says, but his voice sounds very fond. When he walks out of the room, closing the door behind him, Grantaire, who's still feeling completely stunned, can hear his laughter all the way down the corridor.

What _the fuck _did he just agree to?


	7. Chapter 7

Later that same day, Grantaire meets Valjean in the hotel France is staying at and, unfortunately for him, it appears that he is doomed to like anyone associated with the French team once he's had the misfortune of meeting them.

He had been crossing his fingers that he could at least be generally irritated by Valjean's entire existence - football coaches are usually terribly self-important assholes - but given what Cosette had told him about the man and how he'd taken care of her after her mother died, Grantaire was aware that trying to dislike him would probably be a losing battle. Even if he does usually excel at disliking people.

It helps that Valjean doesn't appear to be as delusional as Enjolras, at least as far France's chances in the World Cup are concerned. He seems intent on taking things one match at a time and focus on their next opponent with very little regards as to what may happen after that. When Grantaire asked what he had been thinking when he'd accept to take on a job that would probably prove to be career suicide, he'd only shrugged and said someone had to do it and he'd rather it was someone who knew the team well.

Grantaire supposes it isn't Valjean's fault that the latest ridiculousness to come from the French camp included getting rid of their (admittedly terrible) coach mid-tournament and putting him in charge of the team, regardless of his lack of experience as a main coach. And it was probably the best they could've done given the constraints, even though it still doesn't magically mean that France has a chance.

The team really could have done worse. Valjean isn't a bad man. A serious man, maybe, but he means well and Grantaire somehow finds it surprisingly easy to talk to him and get his ideas across when he sat down with the man.

And also knowing how much Cosette likes him certainly doesn't hurt.

"So," Grantaire says by the end of their meeting, once they've reached an agreement about the best way to try to take on Australia. "You do realize that by accepting the job you basically just adopted a football-playing litter of kittens?"

Valjean grins. "I thought the running comparison was chicken?"

Grantaire shrugs, leaning back on his seat. "Cats, chicken, it's all the same in the end. Well, unless you're cooking. Than you should definitely be able to tell the difference between cats and chicken. Or unless you want a pet - you'd look ridiculous if you put a leash on a chicken. Though I suppose you don't really put a leash on a cat, either, so this whole conversation probably makes no sense."

Valjean blinks at him. "You're a very weird sort of person," he says finally. "I can see why Enjolras likes you."

Grantaire tries to fight the flush rising up on his cheeks. He fails miserably. Luckily for him, Valjean doesn't seem inclined to comment on it.

"Well," Grantaire says, trying to keep a steady voice and mostly succeeding. "If this is all you want for now- "

"I'm actually surprised he talked you into this," Valjean says, interrupting him. "Not that I'm complaining, of course, but this doesn't seem like the kind of thing you'd usually do."

"It isn't," Grantaire agrees with a shrug. "But everyone needs a hobby, right? Besides, Enjolras can be very annoying when he wants something. It's easier to say yes and just go along with it."

"Yes, Enjolras can be a very persuasive young man. When he wants to be," Valjean breaths out thoughtfully, but he doesn't press it any further. "Thanks for all the help, anyway."

Grantaire sighs, only half paying attention to his surroundings. He shakes Valjean's hand and makes his way out of the room he's using as an office in the bottommost floor of the hotel. He heads for the nearest elevator and it's only after he's pressed the button to call it that he reaches for his phone and sees that he's got a new text message. He's all too pleased to see it's from Enjolras.

_I am alone_, it reads, _all dreadfully alone._ _And I appear to have misplaced my shirt. Woops. 5th floor, apartment 10A, come find me xoxo gossip enjolras._

_Hello there, Courfeyrac, _Grantaire texts back. _Has no one taught you that stealing is wrong?_

_Not my fault Enjolras leaves his stuff lying around, _is the prompt reply. _But seriously, poor Enjolras is all alone and moping. Go say hi. _

Grantaire frowns. _Why is he moping?_

_Because someone stole his phone_, Courfeyrac replies, _Really, haven't you been paying any attention to me? I am wounded, Grantaire! Wounded!_

The elevator finally arrives and Grantaire briefly considers his options, before resignedly pressing the 5th floor button.

_Fine_, he texts Enjolras' phone, _But only b/c he'll want to kill you once he realizes that his phone has been stolen and the team needs you too much for that. Especially now that I am somehow emotionally invested in this mess. _

_That's okay, _Courfeyrac says_. We've all done stupid shit to get laid. Pseudo-managing a football team is hardly the most embarrassing thing you could do. I once babysat a litter of kittens to get a girl to go out with me. _

Grantaire really doesn't want to ask, but his curiosity gets the best of him. _How did that work out for you?_

_Got laid, _Courfeyrac says_. But then she broke up with me because I wouldn't give the kittens back. So now I have seven kittens that I named after the Snow White dwarves 3333_

Grantaire sighs, because _of course _he did.

The elevator doors finally open on the fifth floor and he quickly types back, _You're a weird one, aren't you?_

_No, _Courfeyrac says_, I'm just adorable. _

Grantaire snorts, stepping out of the elevator and straight against someone's very warm and muscled chest.

"Um," he says, looking up to find himself staring at approximately 6'5'' of a very disgruntled looking Bahorel. He hadn't had the chance to meet him yet, but the overall being wider than a door thing is a dead giveaway. "You can't kill me."

"I don't want to kill you," Bahorel says, and the unspoken _yet _is audible in his words. "You're Grantaire, aren't you?"

"I'm also an Aquarius who enjoys long walks on the beach," Grantaire informs him. He steps back to stare at him and his eyes zero in on Bahorel's rubber gloved hands. "Why are you wearing rubber gloves?"

"Patience, young Grasshopper," Bahorel says. "Come by my room in a bit and you will know."

"Dude, two things," Grantaire says. "A) if you are hitting on me, thanks but no thanks. And b) if you killed someone, you better cut the body up and eat it because if you get arrested and I need to find another centre-back then _I_ will kill you myself."

Bahorel raises his hands, looking like he's aiming for innocence but missing it by about a mile and a handful of arm muscles. "You're not my type, I'm afraid. And I have committed no crimes today. Except perhaps a fashion crime, but that was a consensual one. Go say hi to Enjolras now, will you?"

He pats Grantaire's shoulder absent-mindedly and saunters his way down the corridor.

"You meet the weirdest people in this line of work," Grantaire muses for the benefit of the empty corridor, shaking his head as he searches for Enjolras' room.

It doesn't take him that long to find it and, once he does, all it takes is a quiet tap on the door for Enjolras to reply, "It's open."

Grantaire turns the doorknob and opens the door, not missing the way Enjolras' eyes widen in surprise and the corners of his mouth turn almost imperceptibly up when he sees it's Grantaire. It's a simple bedroom, very tidy and scarcely decorated, with Enjolras currently occupying one of the two twin beds. It's the one closest to the open window and Enjolras is leaning against the headboard, with long legs stretched out in front of him and a book resting on his lap.

Grantaire also doesn't miss the fact that the book is The Hobbit. Time to be obnoxious. "Reading Messi's biography, are we?" he asks.

"I will throw you out of the window," Enjolras says cheerfully, but then his expression softens and his smile sends something very warm skittering through Grantaire's chest. "I wasn't expecting to see you today." Grantaire shrugs and closes the door behind him. "Had a meeting with Valjean. Then I got a text from you promising shirtlessness."

"But I'm not shirtless," Enjolras says with a frown. "And, er - I didn't text you. Courfeyrac stole my phone."

"I'm guessing that happens a lot?" Grantaire asks.

Enjolras cringes. "Sometimes." He stares at Grantaire, still hovering by the door and adds, "You can sit down too, you know. I won't bite."

"What if I ask nicely?" Grantaire asks, raising an eyebrow but he pads across the room and plops himself down in the general vicinity of Enjolras left knee.

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything about Grantaire's previous comment. Instead, he turns serious, unblinking eyes on Grantaire. "How did the meeting go?" he asks.

"Oh, you know," Grantaire says in a dismissive tone of voie. "Same old, same old. Eleven dudes chasing a ball while other eleven dudes try to stop them from scoring. And then the same dudes change places. Football is surprisingly easy when it comes right down to it. Also, I forbade Bahorel to kill Courfeyrac. Or anyone else, for that matter. Unless he's sure he won't get caught, in which case murder is allowed if it doesn't fuck with my plans for the team."

"Did you like Bahorel?" Enjolras asks.

Grantaire pauses, giving it some thought. "I guess. Though I still think this team is completely off their collective rocket."

"You've only met three of us," Enjolras points out. "And no one's as bad as Courfeyrac."

"Aw," Grantaire coos. "You really like him, don't you?"

"He's one of my best friends," Enjolras replies. "Which doesn't mean I don't want to throw him out of the window sometimes. Particularly when he starts giving out unwarranted dating advice."

"I've read his interviews," Grantaire confesses. "I think anyone would want to throw him out of the window any time he starts giving out dating advice. I mean, I just heard the kitten story - "

"Trust me, everyone has heard the kitten story." He shudders. "I do not get people's obsession with cats."

Grantaire tilts his head to the side. It makes sense that Enjolras isn't a cat person, he supposes. "Dog person, then?"

"Dogs don't like me, either. I had a turtle once, but it ran away," He sounds so sad about it that Grantaire bites his lip to stop himself from making any comment on the unlikeliness of a turtle running away from _anything_. "I called it Turtle. Courfeyrac called it Hulk."

Grantaire can't stop a chuckle from escaping his lips as he pictures Enjolras traipsing through a meadow with a tiny turtle on a leash trailing behind him. "You didn't call it Messi? They _are _approximately the same height."

"I can still throw you out of my room, you know?" Enjolras replies.

"Nah, you won't," Grantaire says confidently. "Who would you bitch to if I wasn't here? You're the captain, you can't really lose your shit in front of the rest of the team, can you?" He tries to make his voice as understanding as possible and is rewarded by a tight smile, though one that is quickly replaced by a frown.

"Why are you doing this?" Enjolras asks. "You've made it quite clear that you don't care, I don't understand - "

"Enjolras," Grantaire interrupts. "I actually do have a life outside of football. I read. I... do yoga. I dress like a hipster on occasion. I have a lot of occupations and hobbies and yet here I am, in the middle of the fucking French hotel, after spending the past two hours of my life talking to your coach, instead of staying at my own hotel catching up on my sleep - "

"You woke up at 3PM!" Enjolras stutters indignantly.

"Shush," Grantaire says. "I am here, instead of catching up on my sleep, just like I was saying. I could be getting a tattoo or making fun of Spanish fans because their tiki-taka loving asses are already out of the tournament. And yet, here I am."

"So you do care about France."

"No," Grantaire says with a shrug. "I don't give a fuck about France. France will win or France will lose and time will go by and two years from now we will be here again and it won't have mattered."

"Then why - "

"Because I don't care about France." Grantaire waits a beat. "But I do care about you." He shifts awkwardly on the bed. "And _you _care about France, so here I am."

Enjolras pats Grantaire's knee and Grantaire can feel the warmth seeping through his pants. He wonders what Enjolras' hands would feel like against his skin, without a layer of clothing in the way.

"I'd rather you were doing it because you thought it was the right thing," Enjolras says softly. "But thank you all the same."

His eyes are very soft and his hand is very warm and Grantaire is very fucked. "How are you?" he asks, aiming for nonchalance.

Enjolras hesitates, before answering. "I'm alright."

It's a good answer. It's a pity it's complete bullshit.

"That's nice," Grantaire mocks, but makes an effort to keep his voice kind. "How are you really? You don't always have to be _the _Enjolras, you know? Not with me, at least."

Enjolras smiles gratefully. His hand is still on Grantaire's knee. "I'm tired. I'm so, _so _tired. I could sleep for an year."

"It's tough to be a God, then?" Grantaire asks, and pats Enjolras' hand. Enjolras rewards him with a soft smile and Grantaire keeps his hand on top of Enjolras'.

"I miss how things used to be, sometimes. In the youth teams, that is," he adds at Grantaire's questioning glance. "I love my job and I know that there there are millions of people who would give up everything for the same chance. But I don't enjoy the press or the limitations and choices that come with it. And it's a great honour to wear the armband and I wouldn't have it any other way, but sometimes it's exhausting. And you always have to keep it together and never let people know how hard it is. It's just draining." He chooses that moment to interlace his fingers with Grantaire's.

Grantaire gulps before squeezing Enjolras' hand and says, "I still think you're an overprivileged prat."

He's surprised at how easy to is, to sit here with Enjolras, holding his hand. He could get used to it, and that probably wouldn't be a very smart life choice.

"That's alright." Enjolras smiles gently. "I will argue about the prat part, of course, but I am a very overprivileged person. But there are still a lot of restrictions that come with my career. But even if there weren't, even if that wasn't an issue, it's still so, so tiring. Everyone's looking at you, expecting you to keep it together and I'm glad to, most of the time, but sometimes I just…" He trails off, seemingly at a loss for words.

Grantaire sighs, rubbing his thumb across the back of Enjolras' hand. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Enjolras says with a shrug. "I'm sure I'll feel better when I'm lifting the World Cup."

"Yeah," Grantaire says with a frown. "Just make sure to turn off your laptop when you're done playing FIFA 2018, yeah?"

"I will kick you," Enjolras threatens half-heartedly.

"Now, see, you can't kick me because - " Grantaire starts to say, but his words are cut short when Courfeyrac and Bahorel burst into the room, leaving both him and Enjolras completely speechless.

Grantaire notices with a little surge of pleasure that Enjolras doesn't let go of his hand. Though he supposes it doesn't necessarily mean anything and Enjolras may just as paralyzed with terror as Grantaire is, staring in horror at the thing that used to be Courfeyrac's hair.

"I - " Enjolras starts, thinks better of it, shakes his hand, and closes his mouth again.

"You don't like the colour?" Bahorel asks.

"Two options, the way I see it," Courfeyrac replies, tugging on a soft-looking curl of bleached blond hair. A soft-looking curl of bleached blond hair that matches the rest of the soft-looking bleached blond hair on top of his head. "One: he wants to cry because I am now the hottest blond in the team. Two, he's trying very, very hard not to giggle himself silly. Either way, totally worth it."

"Or maybe he just thinks you look ridiculous," Enjolras says, rolling his eyes.

Grantaire blinks at Courfeyrac, who throws himself down on his own bed. Bahorel snorts at the three of them. "I know I went along with this, but I agree with Enjolras. You do look ridiculous, Courfeyrac," he says, and Grantaire is inclined to agree.

"What I don't get," Grantaire says, "is _why_. Are you auditioning to play Daenerys after the World Cup is over? I thought you were just going to become a stripper."

"Enjolras forbade me from becoming a stripper," Courfeyrac says sadly, as he kicks off his shoes. "If I can't be a stripper, then I shall be a Khaleesi."

"How could you let him do this? _Why _did you let him do this?" Grantaire asks Bahorel, who doesn't look the slightest bit ashamed of his part in this.

"He asked me. I wanted to see it first hand so I went along with it." He shrugs. "Besides, we both know this will make the front page of every newspaper tomorrow and we really would appreciate it if people stopped talking Javert, so it's all for the greater good, really."

Courfeyrac nods emphatically. "I suffer for the greater good, I really do." He turns serious eyes on Enjolras and Grantaire. "Now," he says, "I am but a young girl and know little of the ways of love - "

"Please shut up," Enjolras says.

Courfeyrac ignores him. "But did we walk in to something we shouldn't have?"

"Are you going to be quoting Daenerys every chance you have now?" Grantaire asks, sidestepping the question. It might be easier to deal with if he'd let go of Enjolras' hand, but Enjolras is still holding on and Grantaire isn't that inclined to let go either, if he's being honest with himself. "Because it's been seven years since the last Game of Thrones book came out, you're going to run out of things to say eventually."

"Oi," Courfeyrac shouts. "He's working on the next one. It can't take that long for it to come out."

"Yeah, yeah," Grantaire says dismissively. "Pretty to think so. The truth is Liverpool will win the league before another book comes out."

"Hey," Enjolras says sharply. "Shut the fuck up. I happen to highly approve of Liverpool."

"But you don't highly approve of my hair?" Courfeyrac asks with sad brown eyes.

"I'm very wary of anything you do that involves hair," Enjolras says. "And it's not like you can blame me."

"I think he's still traumatized from the last time I talked him into letting me straighten his hair," Courfeyrac confides.

"One time, that happened one time and I was drunk - " Enjolras says defensively.

"Not my fault you can't hold your liquor, Enjolras dear," Courfeyrac purrs.

"You got me drunk on _purpose_."

"Your point being?"

"I was too drunk to know what I was doing," Enjolras snaps.

"I really don't know what you're complaining about. Hours," Courfeyrac whines. "Hours spent straightening your hair. When I woke up, it was all back to normal."

"We were in England; my hair doesn't do well in the humidity," Enjolras says self-consciously. "Also, you really do look completely ridiculous."

"I am a Khaleesi of the Dothraki," Courfeyrac says. "And I am the blood of the Dragon. And the Dragon does not look ridiculous."

"I am biting my tongue so hard I can taste blood," Bahorel says.

"Hey," Courfeyrac says excitedly. "Do you think I should start referring to my Twitter followers as my Khalasar?"

"I think you should get your head checked for any serious injuries," Enjolras replies in a very matter-of-fact tone of voice.

Courfeyrac scoffs. "Just because you are so fashionably challenged doesn't mean the rest of us has to be. Now, I really hate to be the one to cockblock both of you two losers but we have an early morning practice tomorrow and I need my beauty sleep. If I don't look well-rested, the bleached hair will only make me look washed-out."

"Yes," Enjolras says, rolling his eyes. "That's definitely your greatest concern for the upcoming days."

Bahorel sighs. "Off we go, then. Grantaire, I'll walk you out," he says and his tone brooks no arguments.

Grantaire gets up from the bed, patting Enjolras' knee in a casual goodbye and vaguely waving at Courfeyrac.

The moment he's out the room and the door is shut behind them, Bahorel shoves him gently against the wall. "Two things," he breathes out. "One. I saw what I walked into. I don't give a fuck that you're a dude and no one else on the team does. But if you're a dude that happens to break his heart, I can guarantee that everyone will have fucks to give. Is this understood?"

"Very much," Grantaire says, bowing his head, and Bahorel steps back.

"Good," he says.

"I am glad you were the one to give me 'break his heart and I'll break his kneecaps speech'," Grantaire says. "As opposed to the Khaleesi in there anyway. I just couldn't take him seriously."

"That brings me to number two. I had nothing to do with the bleached hair as far as the press is concerned, yeah?"

"Wouldn't dream of telling anyone," Grantaire assures him.

Bahorel snorts, before mussing Grantaire's hair and making his way to wherever it is his apartment is.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, and goes to find the nearest elevator, texting Cosette - who unfortunately got stuck in France and can only fly up _after _the match - to let her know her dad is a babe.

Later, he will swear he can hear her horrified shriek all the way from Paris.

In the end, Grantaire doesn't get to watch France's match. He's been texting Enjolras on and off for the past three days, while the match looms closer and closer and he thinks he can read a flash of badly concealed disappointment in the blond's texts when Grantaire tells him he'll be covering Peru's match instead, which is scheduled to take place at the same time as France's game.

He sits down in front of his TV to watch the match, with his laptop settled on his lap, and a tab open to accompany France's match as well as possible. He'd do a much better job of liveblogging their match than the guy currently assigned to do it, of course, but his editor probably thinks it's safer to keep him away from the team and it's not like she's wrong.

According to what he reads, things aren't looking that bad for France. They're, surprisingly, not being awful (at least according to the guy covering the match) and it's not like Peru has been sucking in their previous matches. Besides, Peru's playing exactly like Grantaire was expecting them to and liveblogging it is nowhere near as complicated as it would've been. And when in doubt, he supposes he can just fill up space by making 'not a winger, a Khaleesi' jokes to make fun of Courfeyrac's hair, which everyone seems to have latched on in the past couple of days, regardless of what matches they happen to be covering.

Peru dominates most of the first half and by the time the 30th minute rolls around Carillo scores their first goal. France will be through if they can manage to score two goals in the following 70 minutes.

Ten minutes later, Courfeyrac scores for France and Grantaire lets a small smile stretch across his face.

He spends half-time trying to tell himself he doesn't care, but the thought of France (and most importantly, Enjolras) going home this soon makes something very uncomfortable settle in the pit of his stomach. He paces around the room for a while and, when Enjolras scores France's second goal fifteen minutes into the second half, he gives up and opens a tab with a stream to France's game, alternating between that and Peru's match, who are still holding on to a 1-0 lead. Time goes by very slowly, as both teams retreat farther and farther down their defensive halves, until Peru's match is finally over and Grantaire waits impatiently for the ref to blow his whistle on France's game, signaling for the end of the match and France's advance to the next stage of the competition.

_Congratulations on your barricade's accomplishment_, he texts Enjolras as soon as he hears the blessed three whistles from the referee.

Fifteen minutes later, his phone rings, the caller ID telling him it's Enjolras.

"We won," Enjolras says, as soon as Grantaire picks it up, his voice almost drowned by the loud shouting and cheering on the background.

"Yes," Grantaire says. "That _is _what I meant by congratulations on your barricade."

"Thank you," Enjolras says softly. "We couldn't have done it without you."

"Just make sure Courfeyrac doesn't do anything even more ridiculous to his hair and we'll be even," Grantaire jokes.

"Right," Enjolras says. "We're celebrating tonight in the hotel. If you'd like to come - "

"Thank you," Grantaire says and he wants to say yes but that doesn't sound particularly safe for Enjolras and the question of what he'll be doing there will be hard to explain should anyone not familiar with the team ask so he forces himself to lie. "But I have another article to write. Maybe another time?"

"Sure," Enjolras says, sounding somewhat like a kicked puppy.

Grantaire heads to the shower, hating the world and everyone in it.

Later, much later, after he's showered and eaten and bitched at a lot of people online, and finally settled down on the bed for some much-deserved sleep, a sharp knock on his hotel door comes to distract him.

"Go the fuck away," he barks in its general direction.

"Would it kill you to not be an asshole sometimes?" the person on the other side says and Grantaire recognizes Enjolras' voice. He resists the urge to facepalm as he considers that one day he will have to sit the man down and teach him all about appropriate times to annoy other people.

He rolls sleepily out of bed and staggers towards the door, not bothering to turn the lights back on.

Once he's opened it, it's hard to remember how to breath. Grantaire's room is dark and there is just enough natural light coming in from an open window that Grantaire can see the moonlight reflecting on Enjolras' face. He looks pure and untouchable and so beautiful Grantaire's heart seizes in his chest.

"Oh hello," he says, leaning against the doorframe and feigning nonchalance. "We have _got _to stop meeting like this."

Enjolras doesn't reply. Instead, he looks Grantaire straight in the eye, with the same fierce, fervent look he so often gets during a match and presses his lips together in a firm line.

"Are you alright?" Grantaire asks, worry clear in his voice, because even if there was a reason for Enjolras to be there - which there isn't - being silent is definitely not normal Enjolrasian behaviour.

Enjolras twitches almost imperceptibly, something shifting in his face and suddenly he looks much younger and more vulnerable than Grantaire ever remembers seeing him. He looks at Grantaire wonderingly and Grantaire can feel, rather than see, Enjolras' body relaxing in front of him.

He stares at Grantaire, resolve clear in his eyes, and says, "I'm going to kiss you now."

"You can't -"

He can.

He does.

His arms reach out for Grantaire, yanking him forward in a swift movement and Grantaire goes willingly, Grantaire goes _eagerly_ and when Enjolras covers his mouth in a hungry kiss, he can feel himself melting against Enjolras' lips.

His chest feels ready to burst and he can't get enough air in his lungs and it's good, it's so, _so _good. Their lips slide over each other and Grantaire's fingers ache with the need to touch Enjolras somewhere, anywhere, _everywhere_ and then he realizes that Enjolras' fingers are in the back of his neck, clutching at his hair, which must mean that touching is allowed. Finally, he lets himself wrap his arms around Enjolras' back, bringing his hands up to grip at his shoulders and pull him closer.

Grantaire allows himself a moment to get completely lost in the kiss, to memorize the intoxicating taste of Enjolras' mouth against his and way he smells, somehow woodsy and delicious, sighing at the feeling of Enjolras' hands in his hair and their bodies flush against each other. He loses himself in the way Enjolras sighs against his mouth, soft and low and somehow lovingly, and he doesn't know how long it's been - maybe just a second, maybe an hour, maybe a lifetime - too much time and nowhere near enough and Grantaire could do this, he could keep on doing this and never do anything else in his life and it's this realization that brings him crashing down back to Earth, it's what forces him to remember where he is and who he's with.

He pulls his mouth away from Enjolras, because if he doesn't do it now he thinks he never will, and forces himself to push him away. It's one of the hardest things he's ever done.

"I - " Enjolras flinches, all color draining from his face, apart from his lips which are still red and kiss-swollen and inviting and Grantaire makes himself look away. "Did I do something wrong? I thought - "

"No, I just - I can't do this, Enjolras. You, me, _everything_, I can't. I need you to go," he takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his hair, trying not to think of how a moment ago it had been Enjolras' fingers there. "Right now. I need you to go right now."

He chances a look at Enjolras, who looks lost and hurt, making Grantaire hate himself. He wants to drop to his knees in front of him and beg his forgiveness and yet knows he can't.

"But I - " Enjolras says, stumbling back a step.

"Just go," Grantaire implores.

For once, Enjolras listens, the sound of the door slamming shut echoing in the silence he leaves behind.


End file.
